It’s hard to believe I have known you for two years. When I first met you on that summer day that never seemed to end, your brown eyes locked mine of blue—and I have never let go. In every spare moment, I think of you, of us.
I love our conversations that are so simple and personal. They remind me of the freedom I feel at the beach, floating on the waves and gazing at the sun heating the Pacific.
When you walk me to my car after work, my heart beats with anticipation. I wait for you to make the next move. Spontaneity is a virtue I wish you cherished.
I remember dreaming of us. We sat on your bed. You caressed me in your arms like a child too weak to stand. Your fingers slid down my neck, and you stared into my eyes. I curled up next to you while your lips graced my forehead. Then I woke up.
A part of me wishes this dream was reality, that I could wake up every day next to you with the sun beaming through a crack in the blinds, illuminating parts of our faces. I would pull you in close and smell the faint trace of cologne on your chest. And I would whisper in your ear a promise: to love you more than I have ever loved.
But, I would never want to ruin your marriage, never do anything that could upset your family. I doubt you would ever consider me a better option anyway.
I swear I didn’t mean for this to happen. Loving you was an accident. It just, well, happened.
So I am sorry. I am sorry for being selfish and expecting a married man that I know I shouldn’t love to love me.
Yet, I’ll never stop wondering if you ever feel the same.
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