He told me his wife did not understand him at all. I know how familiar that sounds. Men in stories like this usually say the same things. But when you are twenty-six, and a handsome, mature man is sitting across from you, smelling of expensive cologne, looking directly into your eyes and murmuring, “You’re the only person I can be completely myself with,” you do not remember anyone else’s warnings.
You do not think, They all say that.
You think something very different.
I am special.
He chose me.
His name was Daniel. He was forty-one and managed a department at a major construction company. He was tall and self-assured, with silver beginning to show at his temples—the kind of gray that somehow made a man look more attractive instead of older.
His hands were broad and strong, and his voice was deep and even.
Whenever Daniel began telling a story, I wanted to close my eyes and simply listen. It did not matter whether he was talking about travel, work, or reinforced concrete structures.
We met at an industry conference.
I had been working as a junior analyst for only three months. I was wearing a new pair of shoes that rubbed my feet raw, and I was terrified everyone would realize how inexperienced I was.
Daniel was one of the speakers.
An expensive suit.
A confident presentation.
A few effortless jokes.
Afterward, he came over to me himself.
“Would you like to get coffee?”
Of course I wanted to.
During that first coffee, he talked about his projects, his plans, and his work. I listened, smiled, and asked questions.
At the second break, he suddenly fell silent. He looked at me for a moment and said:
“I’m married. I’d rather tell you right away.”
And I, a naïve twenty-six-year-old, even saw that as a sign of character.
Honesty.
Decency.
I thought that if he was not hiding his marriage, then he must respect me.
“My wife and I have been struggling for a long time,” he continued. “On paper, we’re husband and wife. In reality, we’re practically strangers. We live under the same roof only because of the children.”
He had two children.
A son and a daughter.
Daniel quickly showed me a picture on his phone. A fair-haired boy and a little girl.
I barely looked at their faces.
Perhaps because some part of me did not want to remember them.
“I’m not asking you for anything,” he said. “I just like you very much.”
I answered:
“I like you too.”
That was how it began.
Three years is a long time.
It is not a brief affair.
It is not an accidental mistake.
It is not something you can dismiss by saying, “We slipped once.”
In three years, a person can become part of your daily life.
Tuesdays and Thursdays belonged to us.
Daniel came after work at around seven.
I cooked dinner.
I tried to make something different each time, something that would make the evening feel important.
We sat in the kitchen and talked. He told me about work, his colleagues, and the problems he had to solve. I listened.
Later, we would be alone together.
Usually until ten.
Sometimes until eleven.
Then he would glance at the clock.
“I have to go. My wife will start calling soon.”
His wife.
That was how he referred to her.
Never by her name.
In all three years, I never once heard him say her name.
Only wife.
As if a person without a name stopped being real.
As if she became an inconvenience, a circumstance, a shadow in the background of his life.
I never asked.
It was easier that way.
As long as she remained only “his wife,” without a face, a name, or a personality, I did not have to think of her as a living woman.
I did not have to feel guilty.
I did not have to ask myself questions I was afraid to answer.
I could keep believing that I was special.
Because Daniel repeated that idea constantly.
Every Tuesday.
Every Thursday.
“With her, it’s habit,” he would say. “Responsibilities. The children. The household. With you, I feel alive.”
“Only with you can I be myself,” he told me. “At home, I always have to be a husband, a father, the person responsible for everything. Here, I’m simply Daniel.”
I believed him.
For three years.
Three years of waiting for two evenings each week.
Three years of falling asleep alone.
Waking alone.
And then, between those lonely days, having a few hours when he lay beside me—large, warm, and carrying the scent of that same expensive cologne.
I tried not to think about his wife.
I made a deliberate effort not to.
But sometimes reality broke through anyway.
Occasionally, he called her while he was with me.
The conversations were brief.
“Yes, I’ll be late. A meeting. No, not too late. Love you.”
Love you.
That phrase always caught somewhere inside me.
He told his wife he loved her.
A minute later, he kissed me.
The same mouth.
The same tenderness.
Two women.
I wanted to believe that one of those kisses was merely routine, while the other was real.
Naturally, I decided mine was the real one.
One evening, Daniel went to take a shower and left his phone on the bedside table.
The screen lit up.