September 10, 1944
I haven’t seen Ronaldo in three days.
Three days of wondering where he is. If something happened to him. My thoughts spiraled.
John and I got into a fight. He says I’ve changed. That I’m no longer the woman he fell in love with. I’m distant now. When he wants to have sex, I’m not interested. It’s his own fault for that, and he knows it, too. There’s still so much guilt in his eyes, yet I can’t find it in me to forgive him.
I’ve begun to feel like my marriage is wrong and dirty.
I’ve begun to feel like I’m cheating, but not on my husband. It feels like I’m cheating on my phantom.
There wasn’t much I could say to assure my husband I still love him other than those three words. They’ve begun to feel empty when I say them.
Based on the vacant look in his eyes, those three words have begun to feel hollow to him, too. I’m losing my husband.
Slowly but surely.
And I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t mind that too much.