I’m bound by vows—vows I made with love and sincerity on a day filled with promises and hope. For years, those vows were enough. They kept me grounded, gave my life structure, and offered a sense of belonging. But desire isn’t bound by words spoken at an altar. Desire doesn’t care about rings or contracts or the life we’ve built together.

Desire is wild, unpredictable, and relentless. It whispers to me in quiet moments, when the house is still, and the weight of routine settles on my shoulders. It reminds me of the woman I used to be—the one who laughed too loud, danced without restraint, and lived without hesitation. Somewhere along the way, that woman got buried beneath responsibilities, schedules, and compromises.

I never set out to chase other moments or other men. It started small—a lingering glance, a conversation that felt just a little too intimate, a spark I hadn’t felt in years. That spark turned into a fire, and for the first time in forever, I felt alive. Not as someone’s wife, not as a piece of a partnership, but as myself.

I know what I’m risking. I know the weight of my choices and the judgment that would follow if anyone knew. But sometimes, staying in the lines feels like slow suffocation. And those stolen moments—those fleeting encounters—they remind me of a version of myself I refuse to let die.

I love my life. But I also love the freedom of wanting, of feeling, of being alive again.