"Echoes of Infidelity:

I never intended for it to go this far. When I first met her, it was innocent—at least, that’s what I told myself. She was a colleague, nothing more. We worked together on a project that required long hours and close collaboration. But somewhere along the way, the lines blurred, and what should have remained professional turned into something else entirely.

My wife, Asha, was always there for me—supportive, loving, and understanding. We had been married for ten years, and in those ten years, I had never once doubted my love for her. But the excitement of something new, the thrill of someone showing interest in me, led me down a path I never should have taken.

It started with small things: a lingering glance, a text message sent late at night, an innocent lunch that turned into something more. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t stop myself. The guilt gnawed at me, but I pushed it aside, telling myself it was harmless. Asha didn’t know, and what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.

But it wasn’t harmless. It was anything but.

The Beginning of the Torment

As the relationship deepened, so did my torment of Asha. It wasn’t physical; it was emotional, psychological. I began to withdraw from her, spending more time at work, more time away from home. I grew irritable, snapping at her over the smallest things. Her innocent questions—“How was your day?” or “What time will you be home?”—felt like accusations, like she knew what I was hiding.

I took my guilt out on her, blaming her for things she had no control over. If dinner wasn’t ready when I got home, I would accuse her of not caring about me. If she asked why I was late, I would lash out, accusing her of being too controlling. I could see the confusion and hurt in her eyes, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t face what I had become, so I pushed the blame onto her.

The woman I was involved with—let’s call her Neha—became my escape. With her, I could forget the mess I was making of my marriage. She was a distraction, a way to avoid facing the reality of what I was doing to Asha. But the more time I spent with Neha, the more I despised myself, and that self-loathing manifested as cruelty toward my wife.

The Breaking Point

One night, after yet another late return home, Asha confronted me. She had been crying, her eyes red and swollen, her voice trembling as she asked me if there was someone else. I could have denied it, could have lied and told her she was imagining things, but I was too far gone. The guilt, the shame, the self-hatred—it all came pouring out.

“Yes,” I said, my voice cold and detached. “There is someone else.”

The look on her face will haunt me for the rest of my life. It was as if I had taken a knife and stabbed her in the heart. She didn’t scream or shout; she didn’t throw things or demand answers. She just stood there, silent tears streaming down her face, her body trembling as she tried to process what I had just admitted.

“I’m sorry,” I said, but the words felt hollow, meaningless. How could a simple apology ever make up for the pain I had caused her?

She didn’t respond, just turned and walked away, leaving me standing in the middle of the living room, feeling more alone than I had ever felt in my life.

Writing Down My Suffering

After Asha left, the reality of what I had done began to sink in. The house felt empty, cold, devoid of the warmth and love that Asha had always brought to it. I tried to continue my life as if nothing had happened, but the guilt was overwhelming. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face, the pain I had caused her etched into her features.

I ended things with Neha, but it didn’t bring me any peace. If anything, it only deepened my suffering. I had thrown away a decade of love and trust for a fleeting moment of excitement, and I was left with nothing but the wreckage of my marriage.

I started writing down my thoughts, trying to make sense of the chaos in my mind. The more I wrote, the more I realized just how deeply I had wronged Asha. Every word was a confession, a way of confronting the darkness inside me that I had tried so hard to ignore.

I wrote about the way I had tormented her, the cruel words I had spoken, the coldness with which I had treated her. I wrote about the nights I had spent with Neha, the lies I had told, the excuses I had made. But most of all, I wrote about the pain I felt now, the emptiness that consumed me in Asha’s absence.

I had always thought of myself as a good man, a loving husband, but my actions had proven otherwise. I had betrayed the one person who had always stood by me, who had loved me unconditionally, and I had done it for nothing.

A Plea for Forgiveness

As I sit here, writing these words, I know that there is no way to undo the damage I have caused. I can’t turn back time, can’t erase the pain I’ve inflicted on Asha. But I can try to make amends, to at least acknowledge the depth of my wrongdoing.

Asha, if you ever read this, know that I am truly sorry. I don’t expect you to forgive me—I don’t deserve your forgiveness—but I want you to know that I am filled with regret for the way I treated you. I was selfish, cruel, and thoughtless, and I will carry the weight of that guilt for the rest of my life.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself, but I hope that someday, you can find it in your heart to move on, to find happiness again. You deserve so much more than what I gave you.

This is my confession, my attempt to put into words the suffering I have caused and the suffering I now endure. It’s too late to save our marriage, but perhaps it’s not too late for me to learn from my mistakes. I only wish that the lesson hadn’t come at such a high cost.