Sleeping with My Best Friend’s Husband

This is the kind of thing you don’t admit out loud.

But I’m done pretending to be innocent.

Yes—I slept with my best friend’s husband.

And no—it wasn’t just once.

I know what you’re probably thinking.

That I’m a monster.

That I deserve to be alone.

I don’t disagree.

Her name is Rachel.

We met in college, freshman year.

She sat next to me in Psych 101 and asked if I wanted to skip and get coffee instead.

I was shy, straight-laced.

She was loud, vibrant, unafraid.

That day, she talked for two hours straight while I sipped a latte and nodded.

By the time we left the café, I felt like I’d known her my whole life.

She was the wild one—always dancing on tables, telling stories, making strangers feel like old friends.

I was the quiet one.

But she made me feel seen.

She once told me, “If I ever get married, you’re my maid of honor. Non-negotiable.”

I didn’t know then that I’d be the reason her marriage ended.

Rachel met Evan at a rooftop party.

She introduced me to him the same night.

He was tall, lean, with these piercing eyes that seemed to see straight through you.

He was charming. He made everyone laugh.

But even back then, I noticed how he looked at me sometimes.

Longer than was appropriate.

I’d catch his gaze and he’d look away, grinning, like we shared some private joke.

I brushed it off.

People look. That doesn’t mean anything.

Besides, he loved her.

Didn’t he?

They dated for three years before they got married.

The wedding was a dream.

Outdoor ceremony, fairy lights in the trees.

I was her maid of honor like I promised.

I helped her with her dress, fixed her hair, wiped her tears before she walked down the aisle.

We whispered to each other, “We made it. We’re adults now.”

During the vows, I remember thinking, This is real love. This is what it’s supposed to look like.

They looked so happy.

But life isn’t a fairy tale, no matter how much you want it to be.

A year after the wedding, things started to change.

Rachel got a promotion that had her traveling constantly.

Evan worked long hours.

They barely saw each other.

When she asked me to house-sit while they went to Costa Rica, I didn’t hesitate.

“Of course,” I said.

She squeezed my hands. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

That killed me later.

Evan stayed behind for work.

“It’ll be fine,” Rachel told me. “You two will barely cross paths.”

But that’s not what happened.

We kept running into each other.

Awkward silences in the kitchen.

Passing each other in the hallway, both saying “Sorry” at the same time.

One night, I was on the patio drinking wine alone.

Evan joined me.

We talked for hours.

He told me Rachel was never home.

That they were barely speaking.

He said he felt like he didn’t matter to anyone.

I should’ve stopped it right there.

I should’ve walked inside and locked my door.

But I didn’t.

He kissed me.

And I let him.

I remember the guilt hitting me like a punch.

I slept in the guest room that night, crying into the pillow.

I told myself it wouldn’t happen again.

That it couldn’t happen again.

But it did.

The next time, it was my fault.

I went looking for him.

I wanted that feeling.

Being wanted. Being seen.

We told ourselves it was a mistake.

Then we told ourselves it was love.

It was neither.

It was destruction with perfume on it.

The affair lasted five months.

Five months of lies.

Of brunches with Rachel where I smiled and asked about her work trips.

Of texting Evan when she went to the bathroom.

She would hug me goodbye, kiss my cheek, say, “Love you.”

And I would say it back.

Knowing full well what I was doing.

The worst part?

She trusted me more than anyone.

I was her confidante. Her sister in everything but blood.

And I was betraying her every day.

It ended the night she found my earring in their bedroom.

A small silver stud.

I didn’t even realize I’d lost it.

She called me.

Her voice was trembling.

“I found something. Don’t lie to me. Please.”

My heart felt like it stopped.

I tried to swallow.

My mouth was dry.

I could have lied.

I thought about it for a split second.

But I couldn’t.

I told her everything.

The silence after was worse than any screaming.

She just breathed on the line.

Then came the sobs.

The muffled cries.

“I can’t believe you,” she whispered.

“You were supposed to be my family.”

She hung up.

I sat there for hours, staring at my phone, willing it to ring.

It didn’t.

Evan tried to reach out after.

He texted me.

Called.

He said he’d made a mistake.

Said he loved me.

Wanted to “make things right” with me.

But I didn’t want him anymore.

It took losing Rachel to realize he wasn’t worth it.

That nothing was.

It’s been over a year now.

I still check her Instagram sometimes.

She moved away.

New apartment. New city.

She looks happier.

More peaceful.

She has new friends.

I don’t expect forgiveness.

I don’t think I deserve it.

Some days I don’t even think I deserve to be happy myself.

But I needed to say it.

To write it.

To admit it.

I slept with my best friend’s husband.

And I lost her forever.

And I know that’s on me.

All of it.

infidelity, friendship, betrayal, confessional, real life, guilt, emotional