How Could You?

How Could You…

Five years had passed. Five quiet, aching years without the warmth of a man’s touch, without the flicker of hope that love might still find her. Yet something had begun to stir in Chloe—a slow, insistent yearning that broke through the stillness like sunlight through stained glass. It wasn’t defiance but grace that urged her forward, a whisper of possibility nestled within her unshaken vow of celibacy and devout faith.

Then she met David.

It began with a blind date, orchestrated by well-intentioned friends. But before they ever met, something rare began to take root. Something intangible began to bloom. Weeks of nightly phone calls, blurred into one another—shared laughter, quiet confessions, the soft unraveling of guarded hearts. Each conversation spun a delicate thread between them, tugging Chloe gently into David’s orbit. He spoke of the past with crafted sorrow—of a love long extinguished with the mother of his child. A chapter he claimed was firmly closed. What remained was a deep and growing hunger for something real—something he believed he’d found in Chloe.

As Chloe stepped from her cocoon of solitude, the world noticed. Compliments—unexpected, almost jarring—fell around her like warm summer rain. From strangers and friends alike, their words reminded her of something she’d nearly forgotten: She was radiant.

Five long years without a man’s touch. David was intrigued, captivated by her. He saw her as perfection, an angel he never expected to find. He couldn't wait to finally see her, his yearning palpable even through the phone lines. Chloe was unlike any woman he had known-–modest, pure, like a luminous string of white pearls. She was the virtual woman of every man's dream, embodying everything he could possibly desire. She lived in his thoughts like moonlight on still water—present even in silence, impossible to shake. Sleep eluded him. She haunted his dreams, then stirred beneath his waking breath. He called her constantly—morning, night, the quiet hours in between—as if her voice might anchor him in a world that had begun to orbit around her. His yearning deepened with every unanswered ache, every lull in conversation. Chloe wasn’t just a woman to him. She was celestial—ethereal—something rare and radiant, like a star he’d once wished on and now believed he could hold. And with every call, every heartbeat, that desire grew wild and consuming.

When they finally met face to face, the intensity of their emotions deepened, pulling them into an undeniable orbit. David was utterly mesmerized by Chloe's beauty, her innate grace, and the quiet strength radiating from her modesty. He'd known she would be beautiful, but the reality surpassed all his imaginings.

David, handsome and disarmingly self-assured, met her gaze with his warm, light brown eyes. Something in his expression stilled the air between them, hypnotic in its quiet intensity. Chloe felt it immediately: a current, swift and hot, zipping through her limbs. Her breath caught. A tingle unfurled low in her belly, vivid and molten—like butter skimming across a heated pan, delicate yet impossible to ignore. Whatever this was, it wasn’t subtle. It shimmered between them, thick with unsaid things. “It’s good to finally meet you,” David said, his voice low and measured, a velvet ribbon wrapping itself around the storm churning inside her. Chloe smiled, barely trusting the steadiness of her own voice. Something had been set into motion—and there would be no going back. Chloe's voice trembled slightly as she replied, "Yes, it's about time."

They embraced, and in that moment, ecstasy bloomed—pure and unspoken. A powerful magnetism settled over them like the hush before a symphony’s first note. Her body, soft and warm, molded into his like a delicate blossom cradled in steady hands. In his arms, she felt not just desire, but something rarer: The strange, disarming sensation of safety. In her softness, he found life; in his strength, she found permission to let go.

Six months in, and the glow hadn’t dimmed. Their love unfolded like a quiet melody—delicate, deliberate, deepening note by note. Walks beneath rustling trees. The gentle rhythm of two lives slowly intertwining. Each moment stitched another invisible thread, drawing them closer, softer. They explored hidden corners of the city, discovering quaint cafés and vibrant street art, each adventure a new note in their symphony. Laughter echoed in the spaces between their conversations, a language all its own. Beneath the surface of her joy, the shadow loomed larger, whispering doubts that danced just out of reach. In those moments, she felt the weight of her fears pressing against her heart, a reminder of the fragility of happiness. What if the melody they created together was merely a prelude to a more dissonant tune? The thought gnawed at her, a persistent ache that she couldn’t shake.

And maybe that was the first whisper of trouble. Uh-oh, she thought. Too much time…That song played on a loop in her mind like a half-forgotten spell—“That’s The Way Love Goes,” by Janet Jackson. Chloe found herself humming it all the time, especially when she was alone. “Like a moth to a flame, it burns by fire… my love is blind, can’t you see my desire?” She never paid the lyrics much thought—it was just her favorite tune; a melody wrapped in velvet. But lately, it hit different. The words clung to her like perfume long after the music stopped. A warning disguised as rhythm. Be careful what you hum, she thought. Sometimes the songs we love tell our story before we even live it.

She would lean in close to David, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, and whisper the words like a secret wrapped in silk: "Like a moth to a flame, it burns by fire… my love is blind, can’t you see my desire?" Her voice was velvety sexy, low and deliberate, each word sending a ripple down his spine. He’d grip the edge of control, jaw clenched, pulse thundering. Just the sound of her—the way she said it—made him feel like he was about to detonate.

Chloe was working, holding steady, but David? He wasn’t. When they first spoke, he’d said he was between jobs. Harmless enough—until weeks passed and “between” started sounding like a resting place, not a transition. Chloe’s instincts stirred. Oh boy… here we go again. But reality crept in like a chill—David had far too much time on his hands. His once-thrilling hourly calls now grated on her nerves and became a suffocating tether. If he truly loved her, Chloe reasoned, he’d show it through action. He’d get a job.

Instead, David remained unemployed, living off the generosity of his child’s mother—a bitter reality Chloe could neither respect nor accept. Finally, the ultimatum came. The air grew thick as Chloe broached the subject. “David,” she began, “maybe it’s time you thought about getting a job she said, steady but firm, If you want to marry me… get a job.” His reply was a dismissive flick of the hand, “I’ll work when I find something that suits me. He did find a job—briefly. One month later, only to claim he was laid off.

The disappointment seeped into every corner of their relationship. Even their physical intimacy was a letdown—four attempts, none lasting more than two minutes, and fueled by Viagra he expected her to buy. Chloe flatly refused. She had compromised her sacred vows, given herself to a man who couldn’t carry the weight of commitment. A man she now realized wasn’t ready to be anyone’s partner, let alone a husband. She felt a sharp, lingering regret. David wasn’t just a disappointment—he was a drifter who had stained something sacred.

“I can’t marry you,” she told him, her voice tight with pain. My faith is important to me, and I believe in being equally yoked. I need someone who shares my beliefs and values.” “We don’t share the same faith, and I can’t build a life on that divide. That’s not something we can just overlook or pretend isn’t there.”

David’s expression shifted from confusion to frustration. “You trying to boss me around?” he shot back, his voice rising. “The woman is supposed to follow the man, right?” Chloe took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “I agree that a relationship requires leadership, but it also requires mutual respect and shared beliefs. I can’t compromise on my faith.

He scoffed. “So, you’re trying to make a punk out of me? You think you can just dictate how this works?” Her frustration boiled over. “This isn’t about control, David. It’s conviction. I’ve said this before, but you never listen to me. What type of God do you serve if you’re fornicating with different women? “It’s not about sex,” he said quickly. “No woman ever rocked me like you.”

Chloe shook her head, feeling a mix of sadness and frustration. “Well, that’s just too bad. I can’t go on this way. I don’t believe in premarital sex. With those words, she turned away, her heart aching but resolute. She had tried to communicate her needs and values, but it felt like they were speaking different languages. A heated argument erupted. After that confrontation, they fell out of touch for a while.

Chloe turned inward, anchoring herself in faith and the quiet sacraments that brought her peace. She spent time among friends whose laughter felt like balm, found solace in the pages of Scripture, and leaned into the warmth of her congregation. Bible studies, group discussions, hands lifted in shared prayer—it was a season of rebuilding. A soft, sacred pause where she could breathe, reflect, and reckon honestly with what she longed for in a partner: not just love, but alignment. Truth. Grace.

Meanwhile, David grappled anger simmering beneath the weight of regret, each emotion clawing for space in a heart that hadn’t quite let go. With the slow unraveling, anger, regret, confusion—they collided inside him, sharp as broken glass. After their final argument, he vanished. Two full weeks of silence. No calls. No texts. Just absence, loud and echoing.

It stung, but not in the way endings usually did—this wasn’t clean. Months earlier, she had gently declined his proposal, not out of coldness, but conviction. Their beliefs clashed in quiet but fundamental ways. Still, they’d tried to remain tethered, believing friendship could hold where romance had frayed. But there still hope--Or at least, that’s what Chloe thought.

The illusion shattered the moment he resurfaced—newly single, though Chloe hadn’t even known he’d married. Four months. That’s all it had lasted. And in his typical theatrical fashion, David announced it like a headline he thought she'd envy. “I got married,” he said with a smirk. “She owns her own condo in the suburbs. Drives a Porsche.” Chloe blinked, stunned—but not because she envied the woman. It was the blindsiding that stung, the way a secret so monumental could have been unfolding while she was still humming love songs and making peace with his absence.

Her heart didn’t break with drama. It cracked slowly, in the quiet way grief often arrives—without permission, without sound.

Three months later, he called again. His tone was different this time. No arrogance, no Porsche. Just the words, she divorced me, followed by a silence so heavy it nearly crushed his pride. Chloe said nothing. Some truths deserve their silence.

Chloe struggled to keep her composure, but her restraint crumbled, and the words came pouring out like floodwaters set loose. “I know I told you I couldn’t marry you—that you needed someone who shared your faith. But for crying out loud David, I didn’t think you’d run off and marry the first woman who batted her lashes at you! And so fast? Weren’t you just asking me to marry you a few months ago?”

Her voice cracked, edged with disbelief.

“You deceitful, smooth-talking liar. You had the audacity—the sheer gall—to look me in the eye and swear you loved me. And I believed you. Hook, line, and sinker. How could you stand there and feed me those honey-dripped lies about being your everything? The best you ever had? You ripped my heart to shreds.”

A sharp, bitter laugh escaped her lips, more blade than breath. “This… sudden little bloom of marriage? Was this your idea of love? Hypocrite. Snake. Let me guess—it was her money, wasn’t it? I wasn’t making enough money for you, is that it? She must’ve had deep pockets. A condo, a Porsche... She had the bank account you thought I lacked. Her eyes narrowed, voice low and serrated.

“You twisted love into something ugly. It was never real from the beginning. I had no idea you were serious with someone else. Frankly, I don’t know what love is anymore. David tried to defend himself, shrugging with pathetic nonchalance. “You left me. What was I supposed to do? I didn’t know there was a time limit between a breakup and a marriage.” “Oh, you’re hilarious,” she spat. “So all that time you were with her, but on the same token, you were still trying to pursue me?” Her face twisted as the truth sank in, heavy and vile. “And now she’s gone—dropped your raggedy behind like a bad cold—and you come crawling back to me? You really must think I’m a brand-new kind of stupid.”

“You pulled the wool over my eyes David. Told me you loved me—and like a fool, I swallowed every word. And now I see it. You turned it into a cheap illusion, a cruel joke at my expense. I warned you—over and over—not to hurt me again. But instead of protecting my heart, you crushed it beneath your feet like it was nothing more than roadkill on your way to something flashier.

She stepped back; every word now tempered with steel. Karma never misses an address. Don’t you dare touch me. Don’t you come near me. You married some floozy, it blew up in your face, and now you expect me to feel sorry for you?” Her gaze was icy, unwavering. Save your sob story for someone who doesn’t know better.”

You never seized to amaze me-the sex? Oh, sweet mercy, what a disappointment! You strutted around like a rooster in a henhouse, all puffed up and proud, only to collapse like a house of cards in twenty seconds’ flat. Then, instead of owning up to it, you had the nerve—the unmitigated gall—to blame me, as if I was too overwhelming for your fragile ego. What a crock! You’re just a weak-kneed, lily-livered excuse of a man whose libido couldn’t outrun a tortoise. You left me hanging, high and dry, starving for what should have been a shared experience. And honestly? I might as well have been alone from the start. At least then, I wouldn’t have had to grieve the illusion of love you dangled like a prize.

She broke down—cried for the loss, the shame, the vow she hadn’t kept. The intimacy she gave so willingly, now heavy with regret. It all coalesced into something sharp and holy: repentance, not just for the act, but for the ache of believing it might have meant more. She bowed her head, heart aching before God—carrying the weight of a promise broken, a love betrayed, and the long road back to wholeness.