From the outside looking in, we were so happy together. Even from the inside looking in, we were happy. He was the kindest, most thoughtful, most loving man I’d ever been with.
After five years together, we knew each other’s bodies like we knew our own; our sex was mind-blowing every time — sometimes we had sex three to four times in a day.
He respected me, inside and out, and I respected him.
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He supported my professional ambitions and my personal hobbies. He never raised his voice at me or acted unfaithful, and I never did with him.
He encouraged me to step out of my comfort zone, and he taught me something new every day. Even my best friends loved him, saying that he was one of a kind.
We were two people, completely and utterly in love with each other. Both of us were in awe at how perfectly we fit into each other’s lives, like missing puzzle pieces. I still consider him one of the best people on this planet, even years after our relationship ended.
You may ask, what’s the problem here? He sounds perfect, doesn’t he?
The problem with us was that we lived in a fantasy — a bubble floating away from the rest of the actual world.
He was an older man with adult children, and although he and his wife had separated long before we met, he told me from the start that his children were incredibly protective of him and would never approve of his relationship with a younger woman. He couldn’t bring himself to introduce me to them.
But we were just having fun, and I had no interest in getting involved with his family or becoming some kind of stepmother to adults my own age.