Page 15 of June

I wasn't sleeping much anymore. My apartment was too quiet. My mind, too loud. Every night, I went to bed with a glass of something stronger than I should've had. Most nights, I didn't even make it to the bed. Just the couch. Or the floor. Or wherever I dropped after drifting through the day like a ghost.

I was a machine—eat, work, stare, repeat. But it wasn't living. It wasn't even surviving. It was penance. A slow unspooling of everything I used to be.

For weeks, I told myself she needed space. That I needed time to process. But the truth was uglier than that. I was afraid. Afraid that time would only confirm the worst thing I'd ever done: that I'd lost the one person who made me feel like I had a future.

So I went to therapy. Twice a week.

Not because I wanted to. Because my mother sat across from me and said, her voice edged in iron.

"If you want even a ghost of a chance with her, you need to understand why you hurt her. Not justify it. Understand it."

Dr. Elara Vance was a sharply observant woman with a voice like velvet layered over steel. She had that unnerving ability to wait in silence just long enough that your soul started confessing without prompting.

"I don't even know why I did it,"

I muttered, looking at the floor.

"Selene was just... familiar. Easy. A shortcut. A version of who I used to be. I felt like I was losing parts of myself and she reminded me of them."

Dr. Vance tilted her head.

"You're describing what's clinically referred to as emotional regression. In psychological terms, it's a defense mechanism. When an individual faces emotional stress, especially related to vulnerability and intimacy, they may regress to earlier behaviors or attachments that feel more 'controlled' or less demanding. You didn't choose Selene. You chose familiarity. You chose the path of least resistance."

"Selene wasn't safer,"

I said, almost defensively.

"No,"

she agreed calmly.

"But she was predictable. She represented a previous version of you, and so re-engaging with her created the illusion of control. You weren't choosing her—you were choosing the comfort of who you were when you were with her."

I stared down at my hands.

"That sounds pathetic."

"It sounds human,"

she said simply.

"But it's destructive when we confuse nostalgia with emotional safety. You weren't chasing Selene. You were chasing unresolved self-concepts. That's why most people who emotionally retreat to an ex aren't really betraying their partner for the ex. They're betraying them for the fantasy of themselves they associate with the ex."

I looked up.

"So it wasn't really about Selene."

"Correct. It was about self-soothing through re-idealization. Your brain constructed a narrative that she was an escape route. A safe haven. It's called retrospective idealization, and it often kicks in when someone is overwhelmed by the emotional intensity of real intimacy."

Dr. Vance leaned forward.

"Many people who pursue an ex aren't chasing the person. They're chasing the emotional era. The illusion of control. And it's a fallacy. Because you aren't that person anymore. You just don't know who you are now, and it scares you."

Silence fell like snow between us.

I frowned.

"But June wasn't unsafe. She never made me feel trapped."

"No,"

Dr. Vance agreed.

"But she was real. Real love requires vulnerability, accountability, discomfort. The kind of intimacy that demands presence, not performance. That kind of connection often triggers a flight response in people who haven't fully processed unresolved trauma or emotional development gaps."

I shifted in my seat.

"So I ran?"

"You regressed. You defaulted to a past version of yourself where love was easy, performative, without the stakes of depth. You didn't want Selene. You wanted to feel like the man you were when life was simpler."

My mouth went dry.

"I didn't want to hurt June."

"But you did. Because in choosing regression, you abandoned her emotionally. You compartmentalized her—boxed her into a fixed role in your life labeled 'safe,' 'permanent,' 'unshakable.' That's a type of objectification. A psychological distancing. It turns a person into a symbol rather than someone you have to show up for daily."

I winced.

"How do I fix that?"

"You can't 'fix' people,"

she said gently.

"You rebuild trust, if it's still possible. And if she never lets you back in, you still keep doing the work. Because understanding why you ran means taking apart the internal system that told you safety is boring and nostalgia is worth more than stability."

I told her about the texts. That June knew Selene had reached out and told me to reply.

"She said she trusted me."

"And what did you do?"

I swallowed.

"I replied. Thought... it is closure. just harmless, but I have sabotaged my own relationship."

"You didn't betray June because you stopped loving her,"

she said after a moment.

"You betrayed her because you didn't believe you were enough for the life she was helping you build. So you blew it up. Subconsciously. Self-sabotage is one of the most devastating defense mechanisms. Because it feels like agency when it's actually fear."

Tears burned behind my eyes.

"You didn't go to Selene because you loved her either,"

she said.

"You went to her because you were terrified June would see you as a failure. That's the danger of nostalgia,"

she added, folding her hands.

"It doesn't reflect truth—it reflects comfort. Because an old story feels safer than writing a new, vulnerable one."

"All of this..."

she began slowly, her voice calm but unflinching.

"the regression, the pull of nostalgia, the safety you found in the past—it makes sense, psychologically speaking. It tracks. But it doesn't excuse it."

I swallowed hard. My throat felt dry, like every word I hadn't said to June had collected there, blocking the truth from coming out cleanly.

"You cheated," she said.

The words hit like stones—not loud, not shouted. Just final.

"No,"

I whispered.

"No. I never slept with her."

I looked at my hands, still unsure what I expected to find in them—proof of innocence? Evidence of restraint? Or just the weight of what I'd done?

"I never crossed that line. Not physically. I was tempted. I'd be lying if I said otherwise. There were moments I looked at Selene and... I just wanted to escape. To not feel the pressure of being someone's 'forever.' I hate that. I hate me for that. But I didn't do it. Final line. I didn't cross it."

Dr. Elara nodded, but it wasn't relief in her expression. It was reality.

"Maybe that's good,"

she said.

"Maybe, in a strictly physical sense, that matters. But Aaron... maybe it won't be enough."

Her voice softened—not in tone, but in weight. Like she was about to hand me something delicate and sharp at the same time.

"You're looking at this like a binary: either you cheated or you didn't. But betrayal isn't a single act. It's an accumulation. It's where you let your mind wander when you were supposed to be present. It's every laugh you gave to someone else instead of the woman who would've cried for you."

She leaned forward.

"You gave Selene your longing. You gave her your attention. Your stories. Your late-night honesty. Maybe you didn't give her your body—but you let her exist in the spaces June once filled."

I looked away. The walls blurred. My reflection in the window looked smaller than I remembered.

"I wasn’t trying to hurt June,"

I said, hollow.

"But I did."

Dr. Elara leaned forward slightly, her tone calm, measured.

"Let’s stay with that thought for a moment. You say you hurt her. How?"

I shifted in the chair, my hands tightening.

"I… I didn’t cheat. Not in the way people think. But I… gave Selene pieces of me. Things I should have given June."

Her gaze stayed steady, but her voice softened.

"When you say ‘pieces,’ what do you mean?"

I swallowed hard.

"My fears. My exhaustion. My… secrets. The things I couldn’t tell June."

"And what did it mean for June when you chose not to give those things to her?"

she asked, letting the silence do its work.

The air pressed heavy against my chest.

"It meant… she was left in the dark. Wondering. Hurting. While I… while I found comfort somewhere else."

Dr. Elara gave the smallest nod.

"So even without a hotel room or an affair, you were stepping out of the relationship in other ways?"

The words landed sharper because I had spoken them first. My throat closed around them. "Yes."

She paused, letting me sit with it before continuing.

"Aaron, what do you think June needed most from you during that time?"

I shut my eyes. The answer was so simple it made me ache.

"The truth. To be trusted with the real me, even if it was ugly. Not… silence."

Her voice stayed even, but there was weight in it.

"Sometimes people believe love means shielding their partner from pain. But when we do that, we cut them off from connection. Trust isn’t built in protection—it’s built in honesty. And when honesty is missing, even small omissions begin to feel like abandonment."

I nodded slowly, because it was true, because it was unbearable.

"I thought I was keeping her safe from my mess. But I was just… leaving her alone in it."

Dr. Elara’s expression didn’t shift into pity, only a quiet professionalism that made me feel both exposed and held.

"So tell me, Aaron—when you think of June now, what do you believe she sees? Silence… or trust?"

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. My voice cracked.

"She thinks I’m still with Selene."

"Then the first thing you do,"

Dr. Vance said.

"is correct that. Not to win her back—but because it's true. After that, if you want any hope of starting over, you show her—not with words, not with flowers, but with consistency. Accountability. Presence."

Soon after I left, I made a list. Be present. Apologize like it's the last thing I'll ever get to say. Show her she was always the only one. Not because I chose wrong. Because I lost myself. And I regret it more than anything I've ever done.

I started with Leo. He opened the studio door and looked like he wanted to throw me through it.

"You think she's waiting for you?"

he said coldly.

"She couldn't even breathe, Aaron. She collapsed,"

he snapped.

"I had to carry her into the ER. Full-blown panic attack. June. The strongest damn person I know—and you broke her."

The words hit like a gut punch. My knees buckled slightly, like the ground itself didn't want to hold me anymore.

December, sweet December, didn't even smile.

"She looked so tired,"

she said softly.

"You were her dream. And you turned her into your afterthought."

Then came January. She slammed the door in my face the first time.

"Jan, please I need—"

She opened the door halfway, and the look on her face could've curdled blood. Her voice was all venom and zero patience.

"Oh, now you need something? That's rich. She needed you when her world collapsed—and you vanished like a coward in a blackout."

"Jan—"

"No. Shut your mouth, Shakespeare, no one's here for your tragic soliloquy."

I blinked.

"She gave you so much love and you threw it in the trash for a black-and-white rerun of your high school nostalgia trip."

I swallowed hard.

"You had gold in your hands, Aaron. And you fumbled it like a toddler with a Fabergé egg. For what? A memory? A what-if? You didn't just drop the ball, you deflated it, set it on fire, and danced on the ashes."

"Jan—"

"No. You don't get to speak your pain. Not until you've carried hers. You want to cry? Go to therapy. Go write a sad little journal entry. Hell, go scream into a canyon. But don't you dare show up on this porch with your 'I'm-a-changed-man' face and expect applause."

She stepped back just enough to slam the door but lingered with one last glare.

"You didn't break her, Aaron. You cracked something ancient in her. And if you think a bouquet and a sob story's gonna fix it, you're more delusional than I thought."

Then the door slammed.

Hard. I stood there in the hallway, silent.

Later that night, I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at a text I'd sent weeks ago—a simpl.

"I love you, I miss you"

June never responded to. Then it hit me. Her dad. She always said he was her anchor. Her safe place.

The next day, I left work early. Bought her favorite flowers. Drove with shaking hands. I told myself not to expect anything. But what I saw broke me in a way I didn't know I could break.

There she was— bathed in the hush of twilight, standing on the porch like a painting I once had the honor of touching.

She wasn't alone. He held her in that rare, aching way people hold something precious—

like the world might split if they let go, and she smiled. In that moment, with my heart caving in like a house that forgot how to stand— I realized this pain clawing at my insides was still only the ghost of what I had done to her. A shadow of the storm I left her in.

I had broken something beautiful and now I knew what it looked like when she started to heal without me.