My boyfriend cheated, so I brought a man home and did something outrageous to him.

I found out that my boyfriend was cheating on a female colleague. I decided to take revenge on him. So that day, I brought a man home without telling him and did something heinous to him...
His chilling indifference
In those final days before our breakup, my ex-boyfriend had turned icy. How cold? He once went a full fortnight without uttering a word to me. We lived under the same roof, yet existed as strangers. He never initiated conversation; when I spoke, he’d only offer dismissive "Mm"s or "Oh"s. I initially excused it as work stress, but eventually, even asking "What would you like for dinner?" drew an impatient glare. This wasn’t post-argument pettiness—it was pure, visceral rejection radiating from his eyes to his tone. I agonized, wondering what I’d done wrong, replaying every memory, yet finding no answers.

The discovery
Heartbroken but still clinging to hope—I adored him, even the sight of his profile stirred sweetness—infidelity never crossed my mind. Until one evening. His phone glowed persistently while he showered. I’d never invaded his privacy, yet inexplicably, I glanced down. There it was: explicit messages with a female coworker. My blood ran cold. Sitting on the bed, I scrolled upwards—watching their connection blossom from adding contacts, to daily good mornings/good nights, to arranging meetups, hotel rooms, even strategizing how to deceive me. Tears streamed down my face; my hands trembled uncontrollably. He emerged, saw me clutching his phone, froze momentarily, then hardened his expression without a word of explanation.


Traces in the digital trail
Shaking, I opened my own WeChat, scrolling back through our history. The signs had been there for months. Around two months prior, his replies grew slower, briefer, then vanished entirely. When he groggily awoke to find me weeping over his phone, he paused briefly, then turned utterly cold. He watched me calmly, almost expectantly, as if I were the transgressor.


The sterile breakup
"Why?" My voice cracked. He offered nothing. Enraged, I hurled anything within reach—phone, pillow, trinkets—at him. He batted them away indifferently; some ricocheted and struck me. He didn’t flinch, his eyes filled only with irritation and disgust. Undiluted disgust. In that moment, I felt like a joke. Wounded, yet denied even an apology.


My shattered refusal
Turning to face the wall, his voice flat and detached, he declared, "Let's break up." Trembling with fury, I spat, "You cheat on me, and *you* end it?" His reply: "Then you break up. I agree." Madness seized me. Sobbing uncontrollably, I pleaded "I refuse," "I love you," dredged up past promises, even sent screenshots to his parents. Utterly unraveled, I desperately clutched at fragments of a love already dead.


The cold divide
Ignoring my anguish, he retreated to the spare room, muttering, "I need sleep. Work tomorrow." Sleep eluded me that night. Memories flickered relentlessly—our entire relationship replaying like a tragic film. He had pursued me. His first confession came when I barely knew him, just a familiar face boisterously passing my classroom. I declined. He persisted—a second, third, fifth attempt... His sincerity wore me down. We began dating. He treated me well; I reciprocated, mindful not to exploit his generosity. We shared tender moments: binge-watching shows, midnight grocery runs for impromptu hotpot cravings... 


The unraveling
When did it sour? I once heard that in love, men subtract while women add—a cynical adage that later became my brutal reality. My affection deepened as his waned. Men signal disinterest clearly; we women often choose blindness. His phone silenced. During meals, he’d instinctively place it face down. Gone was his openness, mirroring my vanished trust. I deluded myself until the truth shattered the illusion.


Eviction
Hoping for salvage, I cooked breakfast the next morning. He left it untouched. "Move out," he stated before departing. A lesson learned: if cohabiting, establish your own space. Own or rent independently; never be dependent on his domain. When conflict arises, you hold the power to say "Leave."


The final blow
Work was impossible that day; tears fell thrice before my screen. My empathetic boss sent me home early. I avoided the apartment, waiting instead near his office. Colleagues streamed out. Then I saw him—hand in hand with her—strolling past me. Like a ghost, I trailed them into a cinema lobby. There, before my eyes, he leaned in and kissed her. My heart numbed.


Packing up the pieces
Nothing severs hope like witnessing betrayal. I fled. Back "home," I tearfully packed, cursing myself for accumulating so much clutter. If only I could vanish instantly. Reality demanded multiple trips. I timed my returns for his work hours, fearing an encounter, only to find he'd abandoned the place entirely. The irony stung.


Digital purgatory
My love for him was undeniable. Post-breakup, I obsessively checked his social media. He’d restricted me to three days of posts—all flaunting the new girlfriend. Each glimpse plunged me into weeping fits so violent they choked my breath at night. I exhausted remedies except blocking him. Denial only fueled fixation. Daily, I’d torture myself with his updates, each view deepening the wound.


Seeking solace
I clung to the belief that repeated exposure breeds numbness, then release. To heal, I tried it all: confiding in friends, drowning sorrows, traveling. Busyness proved most effective. Approaching the three-month mark, my best friend suggested a setup. I declined—my wrecked state guaranteed sabotaging any new connection. She respected this, offering companionship instead. On the exact three-month anniversary, painting unexpectedly sparked my interest. Encouraged by my friend, I enrolled in classes; haphazard practice, she warned, bred slow progress and frustration.


The brush as therapy
Painting consumed my evenings. Post-work sessions at the studio stretched three or four hours, crowding out thoughts of him. My boss also proved pivotal, deliberately loading me with projects. "Everything else may betray you," he advised, "but money won’t. Work hard. Earn." I was profoundly grateful; the intense workload banished daytime melancholy.

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