Male POV Cheating Maiikling Kwento at Nobela

During a thunderstorm on the border, my fiancee, Eleanor Ashby, covers my retreat and falls down a cliff. The search and rescue team spends three months searching through flash floods without finding a trace of her. Everyone concludes she's dead. I refuse to give up and spend another two years looking for her. Eventually, I find her at a small clinic in a remote mountain village. But she's become the wife of the clinic's caregiver, Dylan Foster. That's when I learn she's lost her memory and fallen in love with someone else. In my previous life, I ignore her wishes and force a renowned neurosurgeon to use a high-risk treatment to restore her memories. The day her memories return, the man who has cared for and protected her for the past two years throws himself into the river in despair. Later, during an earthquake rescue mission, Eleanor and I are trapped beneath a collapsed mountainside. There's only one narrow escape route wide enough for one person. She forcibly pushes me out. Moments later, a second collapse buries her beneath a massive boulder. With her dying breath, she reaches through a crack in the rocks and grips my hand. She says in a hoarse voice, "Callum Pierce, these ten years we've spent together is repayment for the debt I owed you from the ten years before. We're even now. Neither of us owes the other anything anymore. "If there's a next life, don't let me remember the past. Please... let me be with him." Tears blur my vision. When I open my eyes again, I'm back on the day I find Eleanor. This time, I choose to respect her decision and let go of the life she's forgotten.

Our son's birthday celebration had just come to an end when my wife of seven years smiled and asked, "What do you think about one wife having two husbands?" "What?" I stared at her, certain I had misheard. Before I could make sense of the question, my half-brother walked in, holding a three-year-old boy’s hand. I was still trying to process what was happening when Nancy leaned back with casual ease. "I asked them to come." She reached down and took the little boy's hand, her smile impossibly gentle. "Let me introduce you. This is my son with Julian. "He was born the year you were stationed overseas to manage the Scott family's branch office." The words made my mind explode, leaving it completely blank. She calmly revealed the truth. She and Julian had been together for four years. "I know you've always blamed Julian for your father's death. “I suffered through hiding them for four years out of consideration for you." Her gaze never wavered. "I don’t want them living in the shadows anymore. I want them here by my side." I struggled to stay on my feet, my voice trembling as I forced out the words. "What are you saying?" Nancy raised a hand and gently brushed her fingertips beneath my reddened eyes. "I just want you to be a little more generous. Don't interfere when I spend every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday with them." After a brief pause, she added matter-of-factly, "Or you can divorce me, but our son will stay with me." She smiled as though she were discussing nothing more important than the weather. "I just don't care about you anymore. Even if our son stays with me, I can't promise I'll take good care of him." Ignoring the color draining from my face, she looked at me indifferently. "So… "Have you decided which option to choose?"

My wife and I had agreed to spend the holiday at my parents' house. Right before we walked out the door, she said, "I forgot to change my address again. The package was delivered to Grant's place!" I went still. Three years of marriage, and yet she had never once updated her default shipping address. A microwave she ordered online was delivered to her ex-boyfriend. She said it worked out, since his microwave was broken anyway. The anniversary gift she had picked out for me was signed for by her ex-boyfriend. She said it would be too awkward to ask for it back. The Valentine's Day gift she ordered for me online ended up in her ex-boyfriend's hands. She said she could not give me something secondhand, so she let him keep it. This time, she was ordering a holiday gift basket, and I had reminded her two weeks in advance. It still went to her ex-boyfriend. I kept my voice as steady as I could. "Go get it back. Drive over there right now." Her expression darkened. "He already signed for it. How am I supposed to get it back? We'll just pick something up on the way." "Get it back," I said. "Do you have to be so petty?" she snapped. "You're a grown man. You always have to make such a big deal out of everything." Every time something ended up at her ex-boyfriend's place and I asked her to get it back, that was the answer I got. My hands clenched until the knuckles went white as I watched her slam the door on her way out. I ignored the dull ache in my chest and sent a message to my lawyer. "Happy holidays. Could you please draft a divorce agreement for me? Thank you."

At our company dinner, my girlfriend, Katherine Hale, makes a detour to get some treats. She hands a glass of juice to my childhood friend, Mark Langley, who is sitting opposite us. Then, she sets down a cup of yogurt in front of me. Mark thanks her with a smile. "How thoughtful of you! You remembered I can't have iced drinks because of my gastric issues." I stare at the cup of yogurt with mango bits in it. Then, I nudge it further away from me, my expression blank. "What's the matter?" Katherine asks casually. I respond, "I'm allergic to mangoes. Did you forget that again?" She freezes for a moment. Then, she smiles and shrugs. "Come on, it's no big deal. Just pick out the mango bits." But she never forgets that Mark doesn't want any cilantro or onion in his food. Also, he only accepts chilled juice without any ice or sugar. Meanwhile, I have difficulty breathing if I take even a single bite of mango, but she thinks it's fine as long as I pick them out. Turns out, if one is biased enough, they can overlook even matters of life and death. On our way home, I sit in the back seat as usual. I look at the two people in the front, who seem perfect for each other. All of a sudden, I feel relief washing over me. Katherine can't even remember my allergies, so what am I holding onto this relationship for?

The day my parents travel thousands of miles to discuss our wedding, Teresa Harper and her family have yet to show up. After my third call goes straight to voicemail, Mom smiles and reassures me. "They're probably just stuck in traffic. It's fine, your dad and I can wait." Except we wait for three hours. My parents' expressions slowly shift from bright anticipation to quiet heartache. Dad tugs at his ill-fitting blazer for the 100th time. Finally, his eyes well up, and his voice cracks as he asks, "Colin… does it really have to be her? "We're just simple country folks. We know we don't have much, and we're nothing compared to city folks. We even agreed when they asked you to be their live-in son-in-law. "I don't want to break you two up. I'm just worried. You're thousands of miles away from home out here. If things get bad down the road, your mom and I… won't be able to just rush over and comfort you." Digging my fingernails into my palms, I force a smile and help them up from their seats. "Dad, Mom, let's go home. The wedding is off."

I ended my business trip earlier and went back home, but the moment I pushed the door open, I nearly vomited from the rotten stench that stank up the entire house. Ten minutes ago, Selena Niles, my wife, posted in the Moms Unite group. [I read together with Dolce today again. It might be tiring bringing up a kid, but mothers need to be part of their children’s growth.] Dolce looked up. Her face was dirty, and she said to me sadly, “Dad, Mom is playing with Howard in the bedroom.” Howard Zimmer. That was my childhood best friend. I treated him like a brother of mine, gave him a job, and let him move into my house. I was not expecting him to “take care” of my wife and daughter like this during the few days I was away on a business trip. While I squashed down my anger and cleaned the living room, I found a long, black thing among Dolce’s toys. At first I thought that it was my stun baton, but when I did a Google search on it with my phone, the item description made my stomach churn. [An adult toy. Silent. Easy to carry and can vibrate.] Meanwhile, my stun baton was nowhere to be found. At 2 a.m., a pained screech tore through the air.

On my very first night working the overnight shift at the new hospital I've been transferred to, I run into my wife, Willow Jensen, who claimed she needed to be away on a year-long business trip. Now, she's lying on a gurney outside the delivery room, heavily pregnant, with blood pouring from beneath her. The man kneeling beside her grabs my hand tightly, his desperate pleas ringing in my ears. "Doctor, please! You have to save her!"

The night before I officially registered my marriage, my friends convinced everyone to play a "mystery box game." The female guests each placed a gift into a box, and the gifts were randomly given to the men at the party. Everyone said it was the fairest way. When I opened my box, there was only a thin card inside. It said, "Thanks for participating." The entire room instantly went silent. Some people couldn't hold back their laughter. My fiancée, Charlotte Kilbourn, reached over and straightened my collar. "Your luck is still terrible." Lyra Sharpe, my childhood friend who grew up with me, whispered, "Just smile. Don't make people think you're a sore loser." Meanwhile, Connor Winfield got the hidden prize in the same round. Inside were a limited-edition mechanical watch personally chosen by Charlotte, a couples' island vacation package I had dreamed about for three years, and a handwritten note from Lyra that said, "We'll always protect you." I forced myself to laugh along, then placed the card back into the empty box. I thought winning a game was just about luck. But when I went to the restroom, I overheard the host checking the prize list in the lounge. "Ms. Kilbourn, you didn't give out the prizes wrong, did you? The hidden prize went to Mr. Winfield, and the participation prize went to Mr. Rayner." Charlotte answered calmly. Lyra laughed and added, "That's right. He won't take it seriously." Standing outside the door, I suddenly remembered the night I turned 18, when I stood in the rain waiting for the midnight fireworks at my debut party. Charlotte and Lyra had given the only umbrella to Connor. Then they turned back and told me, "George, you're closer. Just run a few steps and you'll be fine." That night, after I walked home soaked in the rain, I still believed I was just unlucky. But tonight, I finally understood the truth. They had never planned to give me that umbrella from the beginning. So this time, I tore the card into pieces and canceled my marriage registration appointment. I didn't want to play a "lucky game" they had already planned for me anymore.

My fiancee, Bianca Milas, had a peculiar quirk. She never answered my phone calls after 9 p.m.. Even during our honeymoon phase, she would hang up on me without hesitation as soon as it was 9 p.m.. Once, I came home late and realized that one of my enemies had sent killers after me. In a panic, I had called her. When she finally answered, she simply said impatiently, “Grow up. Ever heard of respecting someone’s routine?” That night, I was slashed three times and nearly lost my life. One day, while using her computer, I accidentally saw a call log synced to her phone showing a call from 9 p.m. to 9 a.m.. Every single night, for five years, she had been engaged in twelve-hour calls. I recognized the number. It belonged to her mother’s student, Derek Steadman. Derek worked as her teaching assistant. My whole body sagged, and fatigue washed over me. I sat there motionless for a long while, then called off our marriage license appointment. She never answered my calls, so I did not see the point in answering hers any longer.

Five years into therapy, my doctor pushed a consent form across the desk. "Electroconvulsive therapy is the most effective treatment available. But there's a strong chance you'll lose a significant portion of your memories." I stared at the form for a long moment, then picked up the phone and called my wife, Celeste Kendrick. As always, the call was routed to her company's front desk. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hartley. Ms. Kendrick is in a meeting." The receptionist's response was brief and professional. The whole exchange lasted less than three seconds. Five years ago, my mother died in an accident on the same day as our wedding. I left Celeste at the altar. After that, we were married on paper and strangers in every way that mattered. When I called to ask if she was coming home, the call would go straight to the front desk. When I needed a family member's signature for surgery, the call would go to the front desk. Even when I was falling apart and just needed to hear her voice, all I ever got was the receptionist's rehearsed reply. I opened our message history. She had read every single message and never replied to one. Yet just one minute earlier, she had posted on social media.

I had been dating a photographer for seven years, yet I didn't have a single decent photo of myself. "I only photograph scenery, not people," Nina Jensen said. She even said her last relationship ended because her ex-boyfriend kept asking her to take pictures of him. So for seven years, I stayed quiet. I never asked or brought it up. That was until today, when I came across the latest post from my influencer friend, Julian Locke. [Let me show off my photographer. She's been taking amazing photos of me for seven years for free!] One of the top comments is: [It's an honor to photograph my muse.] The profile picture was completely white. The tone felt familiar, and it sent a chill through my entire body. Turns out, it wasn't that Nina didn't take photos of people. She just never wanted to take mine. 'Nina. If I don't exist in your viewfinder, from now on, you don't exist in my world either.'

While cleaning the house, I noticed my box of new razor blades had been opened. Without hesitation, I had my lawyer draft a divorce agreement and send it to my wife, Rachel Jackman. She called me right away. "Are you kicking up a fuss again? What is it this time?" I fought to keep my emotions under control and said, "One of the razor blades in the drawer is missing."

On the day of the court hearing, the judge went through the routine questioning: “You’ve only been married for three years. Has the marriage truly broken down irretrievably?” I bit my lip with a bitter smile, slipped off my wedding ring, and placed it on the table. “In our three years of marriage, we’ve lived apart for every single day. “Your Honor, do you really think there’s any love left between us?” Throughout our five years of dating, I was the one pinned at the top of her chat list. I was her emergency contact. I was even the sole beneficiary of her insurance policy. I thought I had found the right person—the love of my life. But on our wedding day, she took a phone call, and her face turned deathly pale. When I asked what was wrong, she claimed her mother was gravely ill. Dropping everything, she bought a ticket and flew back to her hometown that very day. For the next three years, she sent me daily photos of her meals, yet her mother was never in a single picture. My heart ached for her, so I offered to quit my job and move there to help care for her mother. But she declined gently, saying she couldn’t bear to let me suffer. It wasn’t until a month ago that I stumbled upon a viral vlog channel of a cancer patient. There she was—Amelia Rose Whitmore—appearing right in Austin Carter’s videos, accompanied by a heartwarming caption: “She’s there when I wake up. “She’s there for every meal. “She’s the one whose hand I hold so tightly.” What about me then? For 1,095 days and nights, I had no one but myself. She lied to me. The judge struck the gavel and asked one final question: “Have you truly made up your mind?” I gave a firm, heavy nod. When the official divorce decree was handed down, I stared at the paper as tears finally came streaming down my face. Goodbye, Amelia. I’m setting you free. And I’m setting myself free, too.

I unexpectedly receive a call from myself ten years in the past. 18-year-old me sounds rather thrilled while asking, "Who did you end up marrying, 28-year-old Theo? Did you marry the calm and gentle Hannah Shaw or the bold and fiery Mia Shaw?" I look down at the scar left by my severed finger and chuckle softly. "I didn't marry either of them." There is a moment of silence on the other end of the phone before he speaks up. "You're lying. Hannah said she would be there for me for the rest of our lives, and Mia said that she would stand up for me if anyone mistreated me." I close my eyes briefly before saying, "They are the ones who will hurt you in the future. They both fell in love with Isaac Somerville, the housekeeper's son. They killed Dad so he could become part of the Webster family—and burned down the Webster residence just to please him. "You even lost your right eye in the fire." 18-year-old me on the other end of the line is clearly flustered. "H-How could that be?" I grip the phone tightly and say with the last bit of strength I have left, "You should choose neither of them, Theo. Get as far away from them as you can, and don't look back this time."

On the day of my wedding, my groomsman, Steve Hayes, asks my bride, Vera Johnson, three questions. Both she and her bridesmaids will get money and a gold necklace each if she answers the questions correctly. I assume that she's determined to win, but surprisingly, she gets the first question wrong. "What's Colin's shoe size?" "Size 9," Vera replies without hesitation. "What's Colin's favorite color?" "Blue." Everyone exchanges glances with each other, feeling a little awkward. Steve asks Vera the easiest question. "When did Colin graduate from university?" Everyone believes that Vera won't get this question wrong. After all, we are university classmates. "2013," Vera answers. "I gave him a protective charm from Mt. Cloudpeak as his graduation gift. There's no way that I'll forget that." Panic grips my heart at that moment. I glance at my best friend, Steve, who's dressed in a blue groomsman suit. There's a protective charm hanging on the necklace around his neck. Steve's eyes flash before he whispers, "Colin graduated in 2012. The one who was held back was me." I'm struck by a realization. The last hint of hesitation in my heart disappears. The corners of my lips curl up into a smile as I look down to send my family a message. "Mom, Dad, can you drive the car over? I'm not getting married anymore."

My fiancee, Winona Ziegler, moves her childhood sweetheart, Caeden Gardner, who has just come back from abroad, into our future marital home. When ordering takeout, I add an eight-dollar omelette and a five-dollar caramelized onion soup to the order, but Winona deletes them all in disgust. "Caeden can't stand the smell of onions. Do you want to make him throw up? Can't you just have some plain water?" Moments later, she orders a seafood feast worth a thousand dollars for him, complete with king crabs and a premium seafood boil. Holding a glass of plain water, I watch her fuss over Caeden with endless concern. Then, my phone vibrates. My bank account has just been charged 1,000 dollars. She uses my money to spoil her childhood sweetheart, yet refuses to even buy me an omelette that costs eight dollars. Five years of love completely fall apart in that moment. This time, I don't argue or beg like I used to. I simply pick up my phone and press "Freeze Authorized User Card".

I was in the middle of revising my girlfriend, Gina Sullivan's doctoral dissertation, when I received her wedding invitation. In the acknowledgments, she thanked me as her brother. The next second, I received a voice message from her. "Ian, Mike and I are getting married so that it will be easier for his dad to arrange a faculty position for me. "Don't be upset. We've been together for seven years. Of all people, you should understand why I'm doing this." I stared at the screen, and my fingers stopped moving. I had paid her tuition for seven years. I even wrote her dissertation for her. She had promised that once she graduated, she would marry me. Now, she was about to graduate, but I wasn't the groom anymore. Our mutual friends immediately started chiming in in the group chat. [Come on, Ian. Be the bigger person. Gina didn't have it easy getting this far.] [The Fletcher family can give her opportunities you can't.] [You're a man. Don't sweat the small stuff. If you truly love her, you'll let her go.] That evening, Gina called again. "You have to come to our wedding. "I don't have any siblings, and Mrs. Jefferson already agreed to represent my family. "Besides, I'll only feel at ease if you're standing beside me." So, it wasn't that she was afraid I'd be heartbroken. She was simply certain that I loved her enough to forgo not only my dignity, but even my own mother, to make her wedding look respectable.

After graduation, my girlfriend, Ada Tyler, drove me home to meet my parents. Except Owen—my little brother—had already claimed the front seat. He flashed me a smug grin. "You cool with that, Jace?" Ada sighed. "He gets carsick. He needs the front. Can you sit in back? Please?" At a rest stop, I got in line for her favorite iced Americano. When I came back, the car was gone. All I had was a voicemail. "Owen's stomach hurts. I'm taking him to the hospital. Find your own way home." Behind her, Owen was laughing. Rain came down hard. Three buses and five hours later, I finally made it home. The second I reached the door, Dad laughed. "Ada, you really know how to take care of people. Owen would be lucky to marry you." Mom patted her shoulder. "You're exactly the kind of woman I want for my son." I pushed the door open. The whole room went dead silent.

The first person from my old life I ran into after prison was Marina Crowell. I was crouched at the side of the road, wolfing down a few dollars' worth of takeout. The woman who used to grovel to anyone who'd look at her was standing over me now in an immaculate designer suit. The first thing out of her mouth was, "Adrian, you've lost weight." I looked up at her and didn't say anything. "Isn't there anything you want to ask me?" Marina said, an edge of impatience under her voice. I gave a small shake of my head. There were questions, back when she first put me in prison. But five years went by, and everything I never got to say went with it. So did everything I ever felt for her.

There's a running joke in my circle about the biggest doormats around, and I've topped that list for years. Turns out there's something even sadder than being a doormat: getting your wedding banquet canceled ten times by your fiancée. The first time, Melissa Ferguson had to stay behind and nurse her childhood friend, who'd taken a bad fall. The second time, her childhood friend was starting his first day of work, and Melissa couldn't stop worrying about him. ... The tenth time, her childhood friend got into it with a client at work, and Melissa tore off her veil and bolted out the door without a second thought. The wedding guests openly mocked me and turned the whole thing into a joke again. But I'd already made a decision. I'd go after my own goals from now on. No more wedding. Melissa and I were done. She went her way, and I'd go mine. One day, I walked straight out to the car waiting outside and went to make something of my life.