I used to think love meant patience.
So I was patient when Dalen rolled his eyes every time I cried. When he said things like “You’re too emotional,” or “You’re not depressed, you’re just dramatic.” I stayed quiet when he joked about my therapy appointments like they were some spa day indulgence.
“You pay someone to tell you what I already know?” he once said, laughing over dinner.
I stayed. For five years.
I made excuses—he’s stressed, he didn’t mean it that way, he had a hard childhood. The therapist said I was in survival mode. That I’d started to normalize emotional whiplash. Some days he was cold. Some days he was sweet. Some days he acted like I was a burden for needing him at all.
But last month, he slipped.
He got drunk at his cousin’s wedding and said, loudly, in front of two of my friends, “I swear, she’s only with me because she knows no one else would want her.”
That night, I didn’t cry. I didn’t speak.
I started documenting everything.
Two weeks later, he came to me with some grand apology. Said he’d “done the work” in his own head and realized he didn’t want to lose me. Asked if we could go to couples counseling. Said we could start fresh.
I said yes.
While he planned a new beginning, I met with a lawyer. Made copies of everything. Opened my own checking account. Got the paperwork drafted and ready to file.
But here’s the twist—
Right before I handed in the forms, I found something in his drawer.
A note. Folded twice. Addressed to someone named “E.”
At first, I thought maybe it was old—something forgotten. But the paper was crisp. The pen ink hadn’t faded. And the handwriting looked hurried, like it had been written recently, possibly in one of those emotional spirals Dalen liked to blame for everything he did wrong.
My stomach clenched as I opened it.
“E—
I can’t stop thinking about you. Even when I’m with her, it’s you. I know I said I’d end things, and I will. Just give me a little more time. She’s not ready.
But I don’t love her. I haven’t in a long time.
—D.”
I stood there, stunned. Not angry. Not even surprised, if I’m being honest.
It was like a puzzle piece I didn’t realize had been missing. Everything made more sense now. The distance, the way he’d been overly polite lately, how he stopped nitpicking my clothes or my hair—he was busy managing guilt somewhere else.
I took a picture of the note, then tucked it back exactly where I found it. My hands didn’t shake. I didn’t cry.
The next day, I booked a meeting with the lawyer to file the paperwork.
I didn’t tell Dalen. Not yet. I let him keep talking about our “new chapter.” Let him bring home flowers and cook dinner like he was suddenly someone I’d always wanted him to be. All while still thinking about someone named E.
That weekend, I invited my sister over. Told her everything. Showed her the pictures, the emails, the bruises on my self-esteem that weren’t visible but were very, very real.
“You sure you want to keep playing along?” she asked.
I nodded. “I just need a few more days.”
I wasn’t planning revenge. I was planning my freedom.
And then, life handed me something I hadn’t even planned for—a message on Instagram from a woman named Erin.
“Hi,” it said. “This might be strange, but I think we need to talk. I believe we’re both involved with the same man.”
I sat there, staring at my phone, pulse thudding in my ears. I clicked on her profile. She looked… normal. Kind eyes, artsy photos, a few posts of her hiking with a golden retriever. Nothing about her screamed chaos.
I responded. “Is this about Dalen?”
She replied in less than a minute. “Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was still with you. I wouldn’t have gotten involved if I had. Can we meet?”
We agreed on a public café two days later.
She wore a denim jacket and no makeup. Looked about my age, maybe a year or two younger. When I arrived, she stood up, nervous, and extended a hand. “I’m Erin.”
I shook it. “I’m the girlfriend he’s not in love with.”
Her face twisted in something close to guilt. “He told me you two were on a break. That you were trying to figure things out, but mostly already done.”
I nodded. “Sounds like him.”
She pulled out her phone and showed me messages. Calls. Photos of the two of them—at restaurants, on walks, even a selfie in our old cabin from last winter. I blinked.
“He took you to the cabin in Big Bear?”
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “He said it was his.”
I laughed. Loudly. People looked. I didn’t care.
“It’s in my name. My parents helped us buy it.”
Erin looked stricken. “I didn’t know. I swear. I ended things two weeks ago when something felt off. I just didn’t know if you knew what was going on.”
“I know now,” I said. “I already filed the paperwork. You’re not the reason I left. But… thank you. For being honest.”
We parted on friendly terms. She gave me a hug. “You deserve someone who wants you like a full-time job,” she said before walking away.
The next morning, I left Dalen a note.
It said, “The lies caught up to you. The paperwork is filed. You’ll be served next week. You don’t need to choose between me and E—I already made that choice for you.”
I packed a bag, grabbed my keys, and left.
I stayed with my sister for a while. The silence in her guest room felt healing, not lonely. I started seeing my therapist twice a week again, only this time the tears weren’t from confusion. They were from relief.
One day, Dalen tried to call. I let it ring. Then he texted, “You really want to throw away five years?”
I replied, “I already did. The day you made fun of me in front of my friends. The rest was just paperwork.”
He didn’t respond.
A few months later, I saw a post of his online. Something about “lessons learned” and “people not being who they seemed.” Classic Dalen. Always the victim in his own stories.
I didn’t feel rage. Just pity.
Because while I was rebuilding myself, he was still rewriting history.
The twist came later, unexpectedly, in the form of a letter. A physical one, delivered to my new place. From Erin.
She wrote, “I just wanted to let you know—I ran into Dalen again. He tried to start things up, even after everything. I said no. But it made me wonder how many others there were. I’m in therapy now too. Because you inspired me to take it seriously.”
I folded the letter and smiled.
It felt like closure.
Months passed. I got a new job. Moved into a sunlit apartment with yellow walls and no ghosts. I adopted a cat named Poppy who likes to sleep on my chest. And I started dating again—not to fill a hole, but to explore what real, mutual care could look like.
The first man I dated asked me why I left my last relationship. I told him the truth.
“Because I started listening to myself.”
He smiled and said, “That’s rare. And brave.”
Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t.
But I know this now—patience in love doesn’t mean tolerating harm. It means giving things time to grow, not rot. And silence can be peace, not punishment. Therapy isn’t weakness. It’s a flashlight in a room someone else keeps trying to darken.
And tears? They’re just the rain that makes healing possible.
So if you’ve ever been mocked for how deeply you feel or how hard you try to understand yourself—know this:
You are not dramatic. You are not too much.
You are just waking up.
And when you do, don’t be afraid to walk away from anyone who preferred you asleep.
If you felt something reading this, or if you know someone who needs this kind of strength—please share it. You never know who might need the reminder.