Olayeye Elizabeth

I know it’s wrong. Every rational part of me screams that this is a mistake, that I should walk away before things spiral out of control. But despite that, I can't stop myself. I can’t help but fall into the warmth of him, even though I know I shouldn't. There’s the way he looks at me that makes me feel seen, cherished, like I’m the only person that matters in the world. It's like he’s created a space just for me—where my insecurities fade, where my doubts don’t exist. And yet, there's an invisible boundary between us, a wall that I can't fully tear down, no matter how much I want to. I think about her sometimes—his wife. I can see the worry etched in her face, even when she tries to hide it. She must know. How could she not? The way her eyes flicker with sadness when she sees us together, when she notices the moments we share. Her expressions haunt me, and they should be enough to stop me, but they never are. I wish I could ignore how her presence hovers over us like a shadow, but it lingers in my mind, reminding me of the lines I’m crossing. She’s not the villain in this story. That title belongs to me, but I can't seem to turn back now. Not when he's there, right in front of me, offering me everything I’ve been yearning for. The truth is, it isn’t even the grand gestures that pull me in. It’s the little things. The way he whispers my name like it's sacred. The way he listens, not just with his ears, but with his whole being, as if my words are the most important thing in the world. His gaze never drifts when I speak; it’s fixed on me, his dark eyes soft with understanding. He sees me. He really sees me, and in a world where I've always felt overlooked and that means everything. The intimacy we share is different. It's not just physical. It’s more than that. It’s the conversations that last into the early hours of the morning, the way he listens so intently, even when I’m rambling about nothing in particular. It’s the way he smiles at my quirks, the way he pulls me closer when I’m feeling vulnerable, wrapping me in the warmth of his arms. With him, I feel safe. I feel loved. Then there are the quiet moments, when we’re lying together, tangled in the sheets. He kisses my skin softly, and it feels like a promise, though we both know it’s one he can’t keep. His lips press gently against my collarbone, tracing invisible lines across my chest, and I feel a warmth spread through me that is as intoxicating as it is dangerous. When I rest my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, it's as though the world slows down. For those few minutes, all the guilt, all the shame, melts away, and it's just us. His heartbeat gives me a strange sense of tranquility—a reassurance that in those stolen moments, I am his, and he is mine. It’s a dangerous fantasy, but one I cling to. I imagine a life where he’s fully mine, where I don’t have to share him, where I don’t have to hide. But as soon as I close my eyes, reality seeps in. His wife, the life they’ve built together, it’s all there, looming over me like a storm cloud. I know I don’t belong in that world, yet I keep walking into it, hoping, foolishly, that one day he’ll choose me instead. I know how selfish that sounds. I hate that it’s true. Some nights, after he leaves, the weight of what we’re doing crashes down on me. I’ll lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and the shame will creep over me like a heavy blanket. I try to convince myself that I deserve more than this, that I deserve someone who will be mine completely, without any strings attached. But then he calls, and his voice smooths over all my doubts, all my guilt. When he says the three simple lover words, “I miss you,” it pulls me back into the web we’ve woven together. I know what we have isn’t dignified. I know that being with him like this is messy and complicated. But there’s something about him that feels irreplaceable, something that I can’t just walk away from. Maybe it's the way he makes me feel like I’m the center of his world when we’re together. The way he kisses me, holds me, like I’m precious, like I matter in a way I’ve never felt before. But then, reality comes crashing down. His life is with her. She’s the one who waits for him at home, who knows him in ways I never will. The pang of jealousy twists inside me every time I think about it. I wonder what it’s like for her—what it’s like to share a life with him, to be the one he goes home to. Does she feel him pulling away? Does she sense that part of his heart isn’t fully hers anymore? I try to justify it sometimes. I tell myself that if he truly loved her, he wouldn’t be here with me. But deep down, I know that’s just a lie I tell myself to make it easier to bear. He has responsibilities, a commitment that binds him to her, and no matter how much I wish otherwise, I’m the outsider in this situation. Yet, the selfish part of me keeps hoping that one day, he’ll break free. That he’ll choose me. I imagine a future where we don’t have to hide in the shadows, where I can hold his hand in public, where I don’t feel like I’m betraying someone every time we touch. But those are just fantasies. They fade as quickly as they come. In the end, I’m left with this longing, this desire that I can’t seem to shake. I wish he could be mine—truly, completely mine. But even as I dream about it, I know the truth. This isn’t a fairy tale. There won’t be a happy ending for us. I know that, and yet, I stay. Because even though it’s wrong, even though it’s tearing me apart, I can’t let him go.