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Weekly Contest #321
“You can see me? You CAN SEE ME?! Because I don’t feel fucking seen. I feel like I am the last thing that you see. Why do I have to tell my husband to care about me?” She wiped away a hot tear that made the bags under her forty-four-year-old eyes look even heavier. Couples therapy. Divorce looming. The gut-wrenching weight of betrayal that Samantha carried was too much. If you had told her in 2011 that the guy who chased her out of a bar to get her number—holding both of her hands in his, looking soulfully into her eyes—would someday be the ...
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