“I Loved a Married Man” 💔

They say love is supposed to be pure — but mine came wrapped in guilt.
When I met Arman, I didn’t know I was about to step into the kind of love people warn you about — the kind that keeps you awake at night, questioning your morals and your heart.

It started at work. He was my new supervisor — calm, kind, always smiling. He wore a gold band on his finger, but I didn’t think much of it. To me, he was just another colleague. Until one rainy afternoon.

I had stayed late to finish a project. The office was almost empty, the rain tapping gently on the windows. My computer crashed, and in frustration, I let out a sigh. Arman appeared from his cabin, sleeves rolled up, carrying two cups of coffee.
“You look like you need this,” he said softly.
That was the first time he sat beside me, close enough for me to smell his cologne — warm, woody, comforting.

We talked for hours, not about work, but about everything else — books, music, life. When I finally looked at the clock, it was past nine. He insisted on walking me to my car, holding an umbrella over us. The rain had softened, but something inside me had just begun to pour.

The next few weeks blurred into messages, glances, and laughter. He always found excuses to talk — a quick question, a shared lunch, a casual compliment. And I let it happen. I told myself it was harmless, that admiration wasn’t sin. But deep down, I knew what I was doing — feeding a fire that wasn’t mine to light.

One evening, after a long day, he asked if I wanted to grab dinner. My heart raced.
“Just dinner,” I told myself.
We went to a quiet restaurant by the river. Candles flickered, and our reflections danced on the water. We talked about dreams — his, mine, and the ones we weren’t supposed to share. Then he said something I’ll never forget.

“I never meant to feel this way,” he whispered.
Neither did I.

The world around us seemed to freeze. I wanted to run, but I didn’t. Instead, I looked into his eyes and saw something achingly familiar — loneliness. The kind that hides behind smiles and family photos.
And that night, I crossed the line.

After that, everything changed. We became each other’s secret. Every text felt like a risk, every meeting a stolen moment. He told me about his wife, Sara — kind, devoted, a woman he respected but no longer loved. He said their marriage had turned into a quiet companionship, more duty than passion.

I believed him because I wanted to. Love makes fools of us all.

The guilt came in waves. I hated the person I was becoming — sneaking around, hiding feelings that once made me proud. I stopped meeting friends, stopped laughing easily. My world shrank to the space between his arms.

He promised he’d leave her. “Just give me time,” he said.
But time stretched and twisted, months passing without change. He would hold me, kiss me, and say, “Soon.”
And I’d believe him again.

One afternoon, I saw him at a café — with his wife. They looked happy. She was laughing, touching his hand. It felt like someone had punched the air out of my lungs. He hadn’t seen me, and I didn’t want him to. I left quietly, heart shattering with every step.

That night, I didn’t answer his calls. When he finally came to my apartment, I opened the door, and he looked at me with those same gentle eyes that once made me weak.
“You saw us,” he said quietly.
I nodded.
“It’s not what you think,” he began, but I stopped him.
“It’s exactly what I think, Arman. You love her.”
He didn’t deny it. And that was the answer I needed.

Tears burned my eyes, but I held them back. “I can’t do this anymore,” I whispered.
He reached for my hand, but I stepped away.
“Maybe we were just two lonely souls who mistook comfort for love.”

He stood there for a long moment, silent, defeated. Then he left — and I never saw him again.

The days that followed were hollow. The mornings felt heavy, the nights unbearable. But slowly, the silence became healing. I learned to breathe without waiting for his messages. I learned to smile without his approval.

Months later, I saw him again — from a distance. He was with his wife and their little daughter, buying flowers from a street vendor. He looked peaceful. For the first time, I didn’t feel bitterness — only a strange, gentle sadness.

I realized something then: I had loved a married man, but that didn’t make my love less real. It just made it misplaced. Sometimes we meet people not to keep them, but to learn what we deserve.

Love shouldn’t make you hide. It shouldn’t come with shame. It should set you free — not chain you to someone else’s promises.

I walked away from that chapter of my life carrying both pain and gratitude. Pain for what was lost, and gratitude for what it taught me — that real love doesn’t have to be stolen.

Now, when I think of Arman, I don’t think of betrayal. I think of a lesson — one that carved strength out of my heartbreak.

Because in loving a married man, I learned to finally love myself.