The question rattles around in my head until it becomes untenable. I try to squash it down; it becomes an ache in my chest, a pit in my stomach. Don’t be silly, say my rational parts. It didn’t happen. It couldn’t happen. You never even considered it at the time, they say.

But what if? says the rest of me. My body begins to dully thud, the doubt now upon me like a leaden blanket. I think about it all the time. You certainly could have. It would have been so easy for you and I wouldn’t have ever known. I would just be… there. Solidly, dependably present, waiting for you to come back from your rendezvous, innocently disguised as something else.

I’d know, of course. Somehow I’d know. I’d lie on your bed, staring at the ceiling with rivers of tears staining my cheeks. Every cry of ecstasy he elicited from you another dagger of ice piercing my very soul within. I wouldn’t even ask myself why. I knew the answer. I wasn’t good enough. I knew that all the time. Not good enough. Not enough. Not enough. Not enough.

I wouldn’t need to ask who, either. I knew who and so did you. He was never really gone. From the rapturous tone of your initial mentions of him to the tiny hints of infatuation towards the end, he was always there. Not present in the real sense, but there nonetheless, like the faint, uneasy smudge of a mistake. If you cheated on me, when you cheated on me, it would be him. It was always going to be him. He’d be so easy to blame for any betrayal, and I’d believe you.

You’d probably tell me, although you’d never know what that would do to my heart. Broken is not the word. It would be worse too than shattered. My heart would be atomised, reduced to nothing more than a pile of fallen sand. The cries I’d give would outnumber the ways to describe the pain I’d be feeling. Holding you close would be the only way I’d stop the rot from setting in.

But, of course, I wouldn’t be able to do that. I wasn’t good enough to hold you. Not worthy. Never worthy. Never had been, never would be. Never. Never. Never.

I’d been cheated on before, of course. That was heartbreak of the sort I thought I’d never experience. The love we shared convinced me that I was in so way worthy of love. This one who felt unlovable finally told otherwise.

If you cheated on me, it would be my final shreds of hope you set on fire. The rest of my life wouldn’t be worth a thing. My existence reduced to nothing but constant pain.

Pain.

Forever.

I lie on my side letting the question scream its way through every part of my existence. Did you cheat on me?

I know you didn’t… but what if?