I’ve been married for six years. My wife, Anna, is a good woman — kind, funny, loyal. We have a dog, a shared Spotify account, matching bathrobes. You know, the usual signs of a stable, quiet relationship.

But there’s someone else.

Her name is Harper. She’s been my best friend since college — the person who’s always made me feel seen. I was in love with her once, back then, but the timing was off. She had a boyfriend, I was a mess, and eventually, I moved on. Or so I thought.

Harper’s always been in my life. Through breakups, promotions, weddings — even my own. She gave a toast at our reception. She danced with my dad. She hugged Anna and whispered, “You picked a good one.”

At first, it felt innocent. We’d text late at night. Send each other weird TikToks. Share thoughts we didn’t tell anyone else. I told myself, this is just friendship. But somewhere along the way, it shifted.

I think about her all the time. I crave her attention in a way I can’t explain. When something funny happens, she’s the first person I want to tell. When I hear good news, it’s her name I type into my phone. And sometimes, I imagine what my life would look like if I’d chosen her.

We’ve never kissed. Never touched. But the emotional weight of it is undeniable.

Anna doesn’t know. I don’t think she even suspects. But I feel like I’m living a double life. I make dinner with my wife while secretly wondering what Harper’s doing. I smile in vacation photos, knowing my heart is somewhere else.

Harper is single now. She jokes about dying alone with six cats. Sometimes I want to tell her. Other times, I think that would be the cruelest thing I could do — to dump my pain on her and ask her to carry it.

So instead, I write this. A confession into the void. I love my wife. But I’m in love with someone else. And I don’t know how to live with that.