“I guess you never know, never know; And if you wanted me, you really should’ve showed; And if you never bleed you’re never gonna grow; And it’s alright now”

“Do you still love me?”

I know the answer. Intellectually, emotionally, psychologically, genuinely, and even matter-of-factly. Yet, he won’t say and it gnaws at me. It doesn’t set me back, per se, but I want to know that something came from our eleven years together.

He doesn’t answer directly. His reply is calculated with an intent to be cruel. I liken it to asking a stranger an honest question and hearing a snide remark in return. Until today, I romanticized why he might do that. This morning, I realized it’s a game of control.

And, it brings me back to twelve weeks ago.

Three months ago, on a Tuesday afternoon, I came home from work to an empty house. All the signs showed he had stepped out for just a minute. Ninety minutes later, at dinnertime, when he hadn’t returned, I began texting and calling him and his circle asking if they had heard from him that day. I specifically called him eight times in three hours. The casual check-ins turned to unnerved dialing of hospital phone numbers and eventually the local police. As I waited for an officer to arrive at my home, I panicked cleaned the kitchen and bathroom during a heatwave in a house without air conditioning.

Upon the cop’s arrival, he conducted a preliminary search using the resources available to him. When it drew no conclusions, the officer upgraded the status to a missing persons report, even though only six hours had passed.

In the sixteen hours he was absent, I scoured the house demanding clues. I discovered an Only Fans pornography account on his work laptop and an almost empty bottle of supplements, to help erectile dysfunction, hidden in his underwear drawer. Immediately, my mind jumped to an incident almost three years ago when I found he’d been texting an unknown Western Massachusetts number and engaging in a full-sex conversation to set up a time when she could meet him at our house. When I confronted him, he went silent, then cried (or maybe that was me). He said he had been curious and was stressed and affected since we gave back a puppy we had adopted at just nine weeks.

He said she ghosted him and he deleted the Tinder account. He knew it was wrong. He knew it would shatter our relationship. He didn’t want to do that.

For a week, I debated what to do. I knew if I forgave him, I granted him permission to do it again since he “got away with it.” If I broke up with him, I would be the only one who got hurt. Additionally, my best friend was set to visit the following week and if she knew what he did, she’d maim him within inches of his life.

I struggled and battled my inner intuition. He said he’d start therapy and would do everything in his power to earn back my trust.

In the years since, we healed, but I never fully trusted him. I checked his phone when he left the room and asked occasional questions. When he told me he wanted to visit the local gaming center, I confessed my fears about him going to meet someone. He never went. As far as I know.

But now he was missing and the bottle of vitamins, that expired in December 2024, had only two capsules left. Eighty-eight pills were missing and not used with me. I now feared he left me for an affair.

For years, he claimed he couldn’t maintain an erection because he was “getting old” and “under a lot of stress.” It didn’t make sense to me. I suggested, asked, begged, and pleaded for him to go to a doctor. He insisted it wasn’t just his primary care physician that he needed to see, but a urologist. That meant a specialty and a referral was necessary. That took time.

Eight years to be specific.

This past January, on the day of our eleventh anniversary, I asked if he had finally gotten his medication. He answered “yes” and he’s had it for some time.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You never asked.”

I told him to take a pill and we were going to experiment with its effectiveness.

It's a request I still regret. I don’t know if he realized it was me who was in bed with him. He climbed on top, and in a trance, did his business. When finished, he dismounted. I rolled onto my side and cried.

“I won’t ask you to do that again.” Teenage wham-bam-thank-you-ma’ams have more sensuality.

“You have to understand, I was excited. It was my first time with the pill,” he said.

He barely touched me in the following six months and despite my earlier statement, I asked. He offered “nice” side boob massages when I flashed him. He kissed me as someone might show their grandmother affection. Intimacy was essentially nonexistent.

And yet, I believed he struggled. I remained faithful. We were in this together. I was sure of it.

Now, here I was, pacing the house, constantly checking the driveway, and hoping his car returned to the empty spot. I called his cell at 1:12am; 3:10am; and 3:52am. Voicemail, immediately, at each attempt. At 4:08am, I texted him with a kissy face emoticon and called him on WhatsApp. No answer.

At exactly six in the morning, the same police officer from the night before stood at my side door. As I raced to meet him, my stomach dropped. I feared the worst. Frankly, I didn't know if that meant an affair or death.

“Good news and bad news,” he said coming into the house. “Good news, we found him.”

“Thank God!”

“Bad news. He’s been arrested on felony charges.”

“Wait. What? How?” As my mind tried to process the information, my mouth ran unfiltered. “He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t do weed. He doesn’t even smoke.”

“It was in a sting operation.”

“Was it an ICE thing?” I asked, careful to enunciate my words. “After all, he’s Asian.”

The officer stood silent for a heartbeat. “No.”

Today, now, I know the whole damn thing was a façade. A game. Whether or not he loved me is irrelevant. He doesn’t value or respect me and love without that is empty. His cruelty is about damage control and an attempt to redirect the narrative back to his favor to keep me on the hook. Without integrity and action, I’m no different, in his eyes, than the broken bowl he kept because he “loved” it.

What he may not realize is today and now, I don’t care whether he gives me the answer. It doesn’t change anything. He still chose arrogance, risk, surface-level satisfaction, and criminal behavior when he had someone genuine, compassionate, and unforgettable at home. He can’t manipulate me any longer.