It would have been easier if she'd lied. He tells himself "honesty is the best policy" and "what doesn't kill us only makes us stronger," but honestly he felt like he was dying.
At night when they lay down in bed together, he no longer reached for her, no longer held her in one arm or pulled her close. Because every time their skins touched, an image of some other man's hand gripping her, igniting her, flashed through his mind. He stopped looking at her, because whenever their eyes met, he thought of some other man's face, some other man's body, reflecting in her pupils. And he barely spoke to her, because when he did, he couldn't listen to her words. All he heard was her soft, deep voice moaning some other man's name.
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