We had been together for seven years, mostly in a long distance relationship but as much as it was tricky, love is the only way to define it.
We had those pillow talks many times,planning our future, painting our house, the number of children we would have when we finally settled.
It was always electric when we got together over weekends or holidays. I mean, we had to account for all the time spent apart. It was both fire and water. We were loyal but one thing I didn’t know, that I would turn out to be the other woman only that, I wasn’t .
He said he met me first yet he was married to her. They had children which made her the main woman, only that I was the love of his life.
Don’t get it wrong, there’s no single day I suspected he had another even after the days went cold and we held unto love . The heart is a foolish place but anyway, I don’t know what happened or when it did happen.
Communication was cut off and as much as we held unto the promises, we held unto nothing. Love, I no longer can define it because sometimes it’s a stupid place to be.
We moved separate ways and two years later, we spoke again. It’s like we never stopped. By then I found out about the marriage. He told me of the two children and how it all went down but we still spoke. About everything , anything and us. Oh yeah, we still planned the future we envisioned and built it only without the children and wedding and of course,less nights at mine.
But seemed like she was the other woman while I also was the other woman.
As much as i sound like the villain in the story, or she could be but I’m happy to accept that role because it makes it easier for her to kiss her husband good morning each day. It makes it easier for me to cuddle with him like its good. But, never forget the real villain in both our stories – the puppet-master pulling both of our strings: the man sleeping next to us.