A Fractal of Confessions

I met up with the friend I believed myself to be in love with. What else can I proclaim when I have too many letters begging him to let me into his life, begging him to be curious about mine, begging me to face reality? They pulse steadily at the bottom of my heart, in the same place as my frustrations and the lies I tell myself.

I asked to meet him on my way home to my husband. I need to know if he’s as much a sinner as I am.

.

.

.

One

I didn’t kiss him. I watched his hands and wished I could hold them. I knew I would never get the chance to as I told him about the letters. How frightening it must be to see someone’s intensity blossom in front of you. You never wanted this.

I went home and confessed nothing. I did not ask for congratulations for not knowing the feeling of another’s lips. I didn’t reveal the letters and all I had poured into them, to places the one I decided to spend my life with does not know to even ask about.

.

.

.

Two

I kissed him. He let me hold his hand and he sighed into me. His breath stopped when I told him about the letters.

I went home and didn’t tell my life partner about the kiss. Instead, I told him about the letters, so he knew how much I didn’t think of him.

.

.

.

Three

I didn’t kiss him. He didn’t ask to kiss me. I told him about the letters instead. I was so desperate for him to understand and so heartbroken when I realized he never would, and in turn how desperately he wanted to leave.

I went home and broke my husband’s heart instead. I lied and said I did kiss another. I wanted his anger and crying to replace my own. But we both knew I would give in to his tears. The letters would have only been a kick to the gash.

.

.

.

Four

I kissed him. I let him kiss me. I was the one who insinuated I wanted one and he asked me if I wanted to try. It was sweet and lingering and I didn’t ruin it by telling him about the letters.

I went home and didn’t tell him about the kiss. I told him about the letters instead, to be able to profess them to someone and still get pushed away.

.

.

.

Five

I didn’t kiss him. He didn’t ask to kiss me. We talked about nothing to avoid touching. I kept the letters to myself.

I went home and decided to break my husband‘s heart by making an unnecessary confession. So he would know I am not a guarantee. I left the letters to myself.

.

.

.

Six

I kissed him. He sighed when we parted lips and said he hadn't had a kiss like that in a long time. Instead of agreeing, I didn’t stop myself from telling him about the letters, desperate for him to accept my idea of love. He didn’t.

I got home and kissed a different set of lips and said nothing. He did not sigh. The letters stayed silent behind my teeth.

.

.

.

Seven

I didn’t kiss him. I told him about the letters to ensure he would never want to.

I went home and didn’t tell him about what I didn’t do. But I did tell him about the letters. He broke at the knowledge of them.

I gained nothing but exposing myself and sprouting new seeds of hatred against me.

.

.

.

Eight

I kissed him. It was so tender that I didn’t tell him about the letters for a better chance at another one.

I went home and told my husband about the kiss. I decided to only break his heart that much and didn’t tell him about the letters. My intensity was only for me.

.

.

.

Nine

I didn’t kiss him. I just stared into his eyes, but not as long as I actually wanted to. I didn’t want him to understand me, so I didn’t tell him about the letters either.

I went home and lied: I kissed him. I didn’t lie: I’ve written him letters. I watched him weep and stared longer than I wanted to, deciding to punish myself for choosing to hurt him.

.

.

.

Ten

I didn’t kiss him. I didn’t even ask him if he was also resisting temptation. I told him about the letters though. I watched him pull away.

I went home and told my husband what I didn’t do as if I did. I kissed him. I even told him about the letters. I’m a sadist, apparently.

.

.

.

Eleven

I kissed him. I told him about the letters. He didn’t want to see me anymore.

I confessed the kiss to my husband. Somewhere in there I cared enough about him to not tell him about the letters.

.

.

.

Twelve

I didn’t kiss him. He left ignorant of the letters as well.

I didn’t divulge the kiss to my husband nor how close I was to kissing him because the fact was that I hadn’t. I did, however, tell him about the letters. My heart broke to watch his shatter, but I'm being good by being upfront. I’m not hiding anything anymore.

.

.

.

Thirteen

I kissed him. I can’t describe how it felt better than my fantasies, but it felt so beautiful to be right. I didn’t tell him about the letters because I wanted to keep him, especially while he still wanted to keep me too.

I went home and kissed my husband because it was the normal thing to do. As if I had nothing to hide. As if there were not several pages in my journals dedicated to writing to another man.

.

.

.

Fourteen

I kissed him. He held my hand and it was the most loving kiss either of us had had in a while. I didn’t tell him about all the letters I had written him, never to send. He didn’t need to know how much I thought I loved him.

I went home and confessed that the kiss happened, but not how nice it was. I even told him about the letters. What else is there but to wreck my own home life?

.

.

.

Fifteen

I kissed him. He held my face and when we stopped I knew it was the best kiss we had each had in a while. It was so gentle that I needed him to know the whole truth. How could I hide this from someone who had given me this gift? I told him all about the letters written for him from the moment I felt empathy for him, even to now after I was already married. He liked my kiss, but not enough to do so again now.

I went home and didn’t feel like hiding anything anymore. I told my husband about the kiss. To hurt him more, I told him about the letters, even after we got married. He didn’t want to kiss me anymore either.

The truth will set you free because it destroys everything around you and now there is nothing to hold you down.

.

.

.

Sixteen

I didn't kiss him. I didn’t even try.

No - that’s a lie. I wanted to, but I kept to my morals for one more day.

I decided to be kind to him, him, and me. I didn’t tell him about the letters. There was no need to disturb and disgust him.

I went home and had nothing to admit. I didn't even tell him about the letters. There was no need for him to know about all the times I found myself thinking of someone else. How would it help us to know that I had written more love letters to another man than I ever had to him?

.

We sat in our usual routine, and all I had left was nothing to enjoy but a lack of guilt, everything to hold, and a sense that life could have been more exciting by now.