- A Moment of Weakness, A Lifetime of Regret

As soon as he stepped out the door, promising to be back in twenty minutes with our favorite breakfast, the room felt charged with something I couldn’t ignore. His college roommate had always been a presence—watching, lingering, his words laced with an unspoken tension. And then, suddenly, the invisible line we had danced around shattered.

It happened too quickly, an intoxicating pull neither of us resisted. Hands shaking, breath stolen, the weight of what we had done settled the moment the door handle turned. I barely had time to adjust my shirt, my pulse thundering in my ears. He walked in, smiling, completely unaware that the world had shifted. The guilt hit like a tidal wave. My stomach twisted violently, the nausea unbearable—I almost ran to the bathroom just to escape the suffocating weight of my own betrayal.

For months, I carried the secret like a lead weight in my chest. Every time he laughed, every time he looked at me with love, it pressed harder against my ribs. The guilt chipped away at me, piece by piece, until I couldn’t carry it anymore. I told him—voice trembling, hands clasped together as if bracing for impact.

His face crumbled. The hurt in his eyes was worse than anything I could have imagined. He pulled his hands away, like my touch burned. The silence that followed was deafening.

Days passed in agony. He barely spoke to me, his presence a ghost of what it had been. And then, finally, he said the words I had been dreading: "I can't forgive you."

The relationship fell apart soon after. No matter how much I begged, how much I tried to prove my regret, the damage was irreparable. He packed his things, and when he left, he took all the warmth and security I had once known with him.

I don’t blame him. I never will.

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