For three years, I’ve been in love with a married man. And with that love come all the deepest shames and desires that are almost entirely connected. With it even comes an unexpected joy as with any love, and that joy, even in the midst of my agonizing pleas to God to remove me from the horror of my own heart and mind, is what keeps me grounded.
Whether he knows my feelings or not is questionable. While I’d prefer to believe I’ve been totally discreet, a part of me figures he knows or suspects, and we just continue on as though he doesn’t know because it’s a lot easier that way. The nature of our relationship, or at least what it was for the first two years, demanded professionalism, and under that professionalism, we found security. Even now we stumble along with it, however clumsily.
No, I wouldn’t have…
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