Winning Back My Ex

Matteo ran his hands through his hair in a gesture of frustration, as he talked with his friend Leandro.

"You know the reasons why I married Galata; it was out of spite. Because I believed Helena had cheated on me with another man, and at that moment, I just wanted to get her out of my mind and heart. But now that she's back, that we've texted, talked on the phone, and cleared up many misunderstandings, I've realized that nothing has changed between us."

"I suspect I still love her. On one hand, I want to see her to know the truth and to see if my feelings for her are still like the first day I met her over fifteen years ago"—he paused for a moment, lost in thought—"in reality, I've never been able to get her out of my mind. I always remember her, and sometimes I feel anxious to have her in front of me again," he responded, feeling miserable about his behavior. However, he couldn't control his heart and force himself to love another person.

"What will you do about your feelings? And if you do discover that she is the one you love, what are you going to do with that truth?" asked one of his best friends.

Matteo seemed to ponder for a long moment before responding.

"I really don't know, because I can't leave Galata, especially not now. We have a child, and she's pregnant! It would be cruel of me to do this to my family," he expressed, without hiding his sadness. "I must resign myself. It seems not all of us are born to be happy. I must forget Helena definitively, and I've already let her know that."

"You can't do that. How can you tie yourself to her for the sake of the children if you don't love her? It's not your fault; you don't choose who to love. You have the right to seek your happiness. If Elena loves you and you love her, you must be brave and confess the truth to Galata."

Galata recoiled, as if she had been wounded. She felt dizzy; she had heard enough. She covered her mouth with one hand, stifling a sob, and at the same time, she felt her heart break into a thousand pieces as she listened to her husband's words. And without being able to help , she remembered how her story with Matteo had begun.

________________________________________

Nine Years Earlier

"Paula, are you seeing how handsome he is? He's so manly, elegant, serious—I love him. He's the love of my life. As soon as I turn eighteen, I'll confess my feelings to him, and we'll get married," Galata sighed, deeply in love, feeling her heart pounding fiercely in her chest.

Her friend looked at her with sadness because she, too, loved Matteo. She had loved him since the first time she saw him, three years ago—handsome, elegant, with those golden-like-wheat hair, olive-green eyes, his Greek nose, and long eyelashes that further highlighted his eyes.

"Paula!" Galata exclaimed, giving her friend a sharp nudge. "Earth to Paula. Don't tell me you don't think my Matiu is handsome," she asked with a mix of surprises and hope.

Paula looked at her with a bit of embarrassment and nodded.

"Yes, friend, your Matiu is very handsome; I've always told you that," she said with apparent calm.

Nevertheless, she felt like a traitor just for being attracted to the young man. She had to find a way to stay away from Matteo, because she would never do anything to harm her friendship with Galata. She  was the only friend she had managed to make, and with whom her father had allowed her to associate since she was fourteen. And by the time Martina had come into their lives, she was too shy to try and make other friends; besides, none could compare to her soul sister.

"Come on, let's get closer to where they are; I want to see him up close," Galata suggested, pulling the other girl from her reverie.

The two slowly approached the part of the garden where the adults were sitting and chatting. However, they both stopped just as a beautiful blonde woman arrived, with well-proportioned curves, dressed in a black jumpsuit that hugged her perfect figure, which caused discomfort to both of them.

They watched as Matteo took her hand and kissed her passionately with a smile. Then he pulled back, caressed her face, and kissed her on the nose, before lifting her, spinning with her, never ceasing to show that warmth and joy in his gaze. Galata felt her heart shrink in her chest; she gasped for air, feeling as if her lungs weren't getting enough oxygen. Tears streamed down her face; she would have even fallen to the ground if her friend Paula hadn't held her, preventing it.

Although her heart was also broken, as it pained her to see Matteo with another woman, she knew her best friend's pain was greater, for Galata had carried him in her heart from a very young age.

"Come on, Galata, let's get out of here. It's not worth staying in this place. Let's go to my house and play with the triplets; that always makes us feel better." The young woman nodded weakly, allowing her friend to lead her away. She felt like a walking dead, as if her world had suddenly crumbled around her.

As they were heading to the car, her father appeared, but they were so affected by what had just happened that they didn't notice his presence until the man stood in front of them.

"What's wrong, Galata? Why are you crying? Who hurt you?" inquired Sebastián, unable to hide his angry expression.

"No one hurt me, Dad," she said, wiping away the tears that had begun to stream down her face without her realizing it. "It was just me. I set my expectations beyond my possibilities, and it's painful to realize that."

*******

She returned to the present and realized how relevant her words still were and with what clarity she had seen the truth when she was just a seventeen-year-old girl. Then she let herself be dazzled by what she always wanted, and there she was, almost twenty-six years old, with a three-year-old baby and another on the way, receiving the biggest blow an in-love woman could receive: discovering that her husband, with whom she had been living for more than seven years, loves another woman and only married her to forget his youthful love. That hurt too much; it was worse than suffering hundreds of stab wounds to the chest.

"I repeat with the most vehement conviction: the truth is on its way, and nothing will stop it." Émile Zola.