It's 2:17 a.m., and I can't sleep. My body's still wired and damned it, every nerve in my body lit up like the Paris skyline at night, you know, with neon and relentless.David's snoring in the bed beside me, oblivious to what had happened.His arm slung over the pillow where my head should be. But I'm here, in the dim glow of my phone screen, scribbling this out in my diary, because if I don't, it'll eat me alive. Today wasn't just a slip; it was a dive, headfirst into something I've been circling for months. Or years, if I'm honest.*****At Zephyra Art Gallery, I didn't just let it happen. I started it. Me. Poppy. The good wife, the one who packs David's lunch with snacks, fruit and love notes. What the hell is wrong with me?It reminds me of that movie flick I binge-watched one time… "Diary of a Cheating Wife," with Trevor Hills playing the clueless husband. The wife there starts with innocent texts, then stolen glances, rationalizing it all as "just vibes" until it blows up her w
Last Updated : 2025-11-17 Read more