**Diary Entry**
I was the one who ruined our marriage… And now I don’t know how to bring her back.
Six years ago, I met a woman who turned my world upside down. Her name was Evelyn. She seemed like she was from another universe—stunning, accomplished, self-assured, with a brilliant career as a barrister and a family background that would make anyone’s head spin. Her parents were well-respected in Manchester, an influential surname, wealth, connections.
And me? I was just a physics teacher at an ordinary school on the outskirts of the city. Quiet, unremarkable, with a couple of academic papers under my belt, an old Renault, and a tiny flat left to me by my grandmother. When Evie first noticed me, I thought it was a joke. Or some kind of social experiment. But she was serious. First, it was just a smile, then coffee, a film, long conversations… And then it became real.
I was madly in love, yet I still couldn’t believe my luck. My hands trembled when I touched her. She felt too perfect, like a mirage. I didn’t dare dream of marriage. Then she was the one who said, “It’s time to take the next step. I want a child with you.” I was stunned. Joy overwhelmed me. I lifted her into my arms and shouted like a madman right there on the street: “Yes!”
The wedding was lavish. Her parents covered almost everything, invited half the city, and gave us a townhouse in Kensington. To me, it all felt like a fairy tale. But somewhere deep inside, a fear had already taken root: “What if she one day realises I’m a mistake? That I’m not enough? That she deserves better…”
We tried for a baby, but nothing happened. Doctors said it was Evelyn’s issue, but somehow, I blamed myself. I felt cursed, as if my own inadequacy was destroying her dreams. That guilt slowly ate away at us.
I refused adoption. “What if she can still conceive naturally?” I insisted, to her and to myself. And then I said the words I still can’t forgive myself for: “Maybe you should try with someone else… in case that works.”
The way she looked at me—like I’d struck her. Her eyes widened, flickering with pain, disgust… and confusion. I expected shouting, a row. But she just turned away. Months later, I felt the wall between us grow. She had a brief affair with a colleague, though it didn’t last. But by then, I already felt replaceable.
We stopped laughing together. No more morning embraces. She didn’t rush to me after work. The warmth in her gaze was gone.
One evening, fists clenched, I said, “If you want, I’ll leave. I understand if you need something different.” She didn’t answer. Just cried and went to sleep in the guest room. The next morning, I packed my things and left.
The divorce was quiet. No arguments. Just paperwork. But when the judge said, “You are officially divorced,” something inside me shattered. I had lost the love of my life.
Three years have passed. I live alone. No serious relationships. I can’t. I don’t want to. She’s still in me.
Rumour has it Evie hasn’t settled with anyone, either. Dates, brief encounters, but nothing lasting.
Sometimes, I sit by the window in the dark and wonder: “Should I call her? Write? Tell her how much I miss her? How much I love her?” But then terror grips me—what if she says she’s happy now? That she doesn’t need me anymore?
I blame myself for letting her go. For not fighting. For letting fear destroy the most precious thing I ever had.
I don’t know how to fix it. But one thing’s certain—I still love her. Completely. Without the option of replacement.
Tell me… what would you do in my place? Should I knock on a closed door? Or wait, hoping she’ll open it, even a crack? I’m terrified. But maybe… maybe it’s not over yet?