Page 88 of October
She turned to October. "October, I want you to ask him every uneasy question still burning inside you." Then, to me: "And I want you to answer honestly. Without trying to soften it, without explaining it away. This isn't about reconciliation, it's about understanding. It's about giving October the whole truth, so she can decide what to do with it. So you both can move forward, not simply 'move on.'"
She folded her hands, her gaze steady but kind, "When you're ready, October."
She took a breath and then said, "Okay, then... I need to know. Did you love her?"
My shoulders dropped. I shook my head right away, without even needing to think.
"No. Never. Not even close."
October's eyes stayed on mine, patient but unflinching, "Then why did you enjoy spending time with her?"
I drew in a breath, felt the shame burn hot at the back of my throat, "Because it felt... easy," I admitted, my voice catching. "At the office, everything else felt like it was falling apart. But that part, those hours, those meetings, felt controlled. She was always kind to me, always supportive. She made me feel competent again." My voice cracked as I kept talking. "And it wasn't just about feeling liked by her. It was the ripple effect: my dad looked at me like I was finally doing something right, the other colleagues respected the results we got. I was suddenly... relevant. Useful, and I liked that. God, I really liked that. It made work lighter, and it made me feel... needed. I know how selfish that sounds. It was selfish. I'm so, so sorry."
October's next question was soft but direct, "Was she ever forward? Did you ever reject her?"
I swallowed. The memory still makes my stomach turn. "Yes," I said, my voice low. "The first time she touched my arm outside a meeting, I stepped back. I told her it wasn't appropriate. But... I didn't end the friendship. I told myself it was harmless, that was the biggest lie I told myself."
She nodded, her eyes clouded but steady, "Did you have lunches or dinners, just the two of you?"
I nodded, shame washing over me. "Mostly coffee breaks ."
Her voice wavered, but she asked anyway, "Would you have ever stopped if you hadn't discovered what she did with your dad?"
My chest tightened. I looked up at her, raw and honest.
"Yes, because the moment I really woke up was when you called her my mistress," I admitted, my voice shaking. "Hearing those words come from you, your voice, the hurt under it, it cracked through all the compartments I'd built in my head. That's when it stopped being a harmless 'maybe this is too close' and became 'Thomas, you're betraying her.'"
A humorless laugh caught in my throat. "I was flabbergasted. At first, I thought you were being dramatic. Cruel, even. I told myself, she's a colleague, maybe even a friend. Someone who makes work lighter and makes my dad see me in a better light but has nothing to do with you."
I exhaled slowly, voice rough. "But you were right. You saw what I refused to see. I wasn't sleeping with her but I was already betraying you. Quietly. Thoughtlessly. Intimately. I carved outspace in my heart and time in my life that should've belonged to you."
My eyes fell to where our hands lay intertwined, her skin warm beneath my touch. I traced slow, deliberate circles over her knuckles, small, steady movements, as if I could anchor myself there, keep from drifting under the weight of everything unsaid. Then I sank down onto my knees in front of her, gently gathering her hands in mine, holding them like something precious and breakable.
"I promise you, October," I whispered, voice almost breaking. "I will never put you in that position again. Not the position of wondering if you matter less. Of doubting your place in my heart. Of feeling like someone else could come close."
I paused, words catching in my throat, and then added, more quietly, almost a vow:
"Never again," I said, my voice low but certain. "Never again will I make you doubt how I feel about you or what you mean to me."
October just kept looking at me, silent, her gaze steady and unflinching, saying more than words ever could. God, I wished I could undo what I'd done, take every bit of that pain from her and carry it myself, if it meant freeing her from it. Watching her hold it all inside like that, knowing I put it there, tore something open in me I don't think will ever fully close.
Dr. Mireille leaned forward a little, her hands resting lightly in her lap, eyes moving between the two of us.
"The way I see it," she began, her voice calm but deliberate, "two things made it easier for you to drift into emotional infidelity, Thomas:complacency and boundaries,and let mebe clear, these aren't excuses. Nothing justifies what happened. But understanding them matters, so you don't repeat the same patterns."
She paused, letting the words hang between us, like dust catching the afternoon light.
"When you love someone from such a young age," Dr. Mireille began, her voice calm but unflinching, "that love can start to feel indestructible. Thomas, that's where the danger crept in for you, not out of malice or disregard, but because you were so certain of what you shared that you stopped tending to it."
She leaned in slightly, her gaze steady yet gentle.
"You trusted so deeply in how much you loved her, and in how much she loved you, that you thought nothing and no one could threaten that bond. So you stopped offering the very reassurances and tenderness that built it in the first place. The quiet 'I'm still here,' the small gestures that say: you still matter more than anything."
Her voice softened, but there was an unmistakable weight beneath it.
"But love isn't a monument that stays standing just because you once built it strong. It's something that asks to be chosen every day. And the moment you began giving attention, even small pieces of yourself, to another woman... that certainty you had—that nothing could shake what you shared—became the very thing that allowed you to hurt her."
Then, her expression grew firmer, the softness edged with something sharper.
