My boyfriend cheated, so I brought a man home and did something outrageous to him-2
December 15, 2025
44 Comments
The final cut
Immersed in work and art, I stumbled upon his profile again one day. Remarkably, no tears came. A dull ache remained, overshadowed by the pressing thought: This canvas needs finishing for tomorrow's class. Suddenly, clearly: "Delete him." I blocked every contact point. Relief washed over me instantly. His next update came through my best friend.
Karmic justice
She relayed his downfall: cheated on by the same colleague, beaten bloody in a fight with her new lover, hospitalized for a week. She laughed, calling it poetic justice—cheaters eventually get cheated. I smiled too. Forgiveness wasn't my virtue; hearing of his misfortune felt deserved. One Saturday, leaving class, I found multiple missed calls—one from his close friend, another unknown.
The unwanted invitation
I didn't return the call; urgency would prompt a callback. It did. His friend made small talk before asking my whereabouts. "Why?" I inquired. It was his birthday party, an invitation extended. My ex would obviously attend. I declined. Silence hung. Preparing to hang up, he spoke: my ex regretted everything, wanted to apologize in person, asked for reconciliation. I cut him off: "Impossible."
Standing firm
"He’s seen the light," the friend insisted. "Wouldn't you...?" I interrupted again: "We're done. No contact." Offering a curt "Sorry, busy," I hung up and blocked that number too. Later, my ex himself appeared—at my office, loitering near my apartment... bearing gifts. I ignored him, mailing every offering back return-to-sender.
Parental pressure
His parents intervened. "You've been together long enough," they urged. "Marry him. We’ll provide a dowry, buy property jointly." The absurdity provoked dark laughter, yet I maintained civility: "We've separated permanently." They persisted; I stood resolute. This family chapter was closed. I nearly offered hollow well-wishes for his future, but swallowed the words. My generosity had limits, and false platitudes felt insulting to potential future victims.
Debt and downfall
Later, news trickled in: the mistress who helped ruin us vanished under crushing debt. Reportedly swindled by a subsequent boyfriend who stole her identity for loans, then vanished. Creditors hounded her; lawsuits followed. Before disappearing, she pinned a note publicly: "Got problems? See him."—listing my ex’s contact details and home address.
Rebuilding
Consequently, my ex faced relentless harassment: paint splattered on his door, car vandalized, threatening calls. He fled, changing homes and jobs. My friend mentioned he’d retaliated viciously against his ex-lover after being cheated on, costing her job. Small wonder she exposed him. Gradually, my life stabilized. Painting became my sanctuary; evenings before the easel brought profound peace. My boss, noting my recovery, entrusted me with significant projects. Overtime became routine, yet watching my savings grow fostered genuine security.
A new connection
Painting truly became my refuge, offering nightly serenity. Roughly six months post-breakup, a man at the studio caught my attention. Seated diagonally across, he painted with quiet focus. Once, rinsing brushes, I accidentally splashed his work. Frantic apologies tumbled out. He smiled, "Perfect timing. I was stuck—you’ve sparked an idea." We grew acquainted, discussing lessons, occasionally sharing post-class suppers. He respected my pace. Aware of my past, his gentle patience felt comforting; he never pressured, simply offered presence.
Unwanted echoes
My ex persisted sporadically. A new number delivered texts: "Miss your tomato-egg noodles," "Regret everything." Reading them stirred nothing—perhaps faint amusement. He merely missed being cared for. I deleted the message, blocked the number. My friend updated me: creditors, thwarted in finding his vanished mistress, now tormented him. Paint, scratches, threats compounded his misery.
A tentative ask
Driven out, he relocated and changed jobs. My friend deemed karma served. I felt detached; his troubles were no longer mine. The studio man confessed his feelings on a rainy weekend. We worked intently when he set down his brush, saying earnestly, "I find peace with you. Could we try?" I paused. "I need time," I replied. He nodded, resuming his painting in serene acceptance.
Cleansing the past
In that moment, clarity dawned: I’d stopped punishing myself with relics of pain. My birthday brought a parcel from my ex—a forgotten scarf from our past, enclosed with a lengthy letter lamenting how only now he realized my worth. Reading it, I felt neither ache nor rage, only vast distance. The scarf went to charity; the letter met the shredder.
Embracing the next chapter
Some things, like that outdated scarf, belong discarded. Currently, I contemplate moving closer to the studio. Last weekend, the painter accompanied me to view apartments, thoughtfully analyzing light sources for optimal painting conditions. Watching his focused profile, a thought emerged: perhaps offering him—and myself—a chance is the path forward. Life, after all, flows onward.
Immersed in work and art, I stumbled upon his profile again one day. Remarkably, no tears came. A dull ache remained, overshadowed by the pressing thought: This canvas needs finishing for tomorrow's class. Suddenly, clearly: "Delete him." I blocked every contact point. Relief washed over me instantly. His next update came through my best friend.
Karmic justice
She relayed his downfall: cheated on by the same colleague, beaten bloody in a fight with her new lover, hospitalized for a week. She laughed, calling it poetic justice—cheaters eventually get cheated. I smiled too. Forgiveness wasn't my virtue; hearing of his misfortune felt deserved. One Saturday, leaving class, I found multiple missed calls—one from his close friend, another unknown.
The unwanted invitation
I didn't return the call; urgency would prompt a callback. It did. His friend made small talk before asking my whereabouts. "Why?" I inquired. It was his birthday party, an invitation extended. My ex would obviously attend. I declined. Silence hung. Preparing to hang up, he spoke: my ex regretted everything, wanted to apologize in person, asked for reconciliation. I cut him off: "Impossible."
Standing firm
"He’s seen the light," the friend insisted. "Wouldn't you...?" I interrupted again: "We're done. No contact." Offering a curt "Sorry, busy," I hung up and blocked that number too. Later, my ex himself appeared—at my office, loitering near my apartment... bearing gifts. I ignored him, mailing every offering back return-to-sender.
Parental pressure
His parents intervened. "You've been together long enough," they urged. "Marry him. We’ll provide a dowry, buy property jointly." The absurdity provoked dark laughter, yet I maintained civility: "We've separated permanently." They persisted; I stood resolute. This family chapter was closed. I nearly offered hollow well-wishes for his future, but swallowed the words. My generosity had limits, and false platitudes felt insulting to potential future victims.
Debt and downfall
Later, news trickled in: the mistress who helped ruin us vanished under crushing debt. Reportedly swindled by a subsequent boyfriend who stole her identity for loans, then vanished. Creditors hounded her; lawsuits followed. Before disappearing, she pinned a note publicly: "Got problems? See him."—listing my ex’s contact details and home address.
Rebuilding
Consequently, my ex faced relentless harassment: paint splattered on his door, car vandalized, threatening calls. He fled, changing homes and jobs. My friend mentioned he’d retaliated viciously against his ex-lover after being cheated on, costing her job. Small wonder she exposed him. Gradually, my life stabilized. Painting became my sanctuary; evenings before the easel brought profound peace. My boss, noting my recovery, entrusted me with significant projects. Overtime became routine, yet watching my savings grow fostered genuine security.
A new connection
Painting truly became my refuge, offering nightly serenity. Roughly six months post-breakup, a man at the studio caught my attention. Seated diagonally across, he painted with quiet focus. Once, rinsing brushes, I accidentally splashed his work. Frantic apologies tumbled out. He smiled, "Perfect timing. I was stuck—you’ve sparked an idea." We grew acquainted, discussing lessons, occasionally sharing post-class suppers. He respected my pace. Aware of my past, his gentle patience felt comforting; he never pressured, simply offered presence.
Unwanted echoes
My ex persisted sporadically. A new number delivered texts: "Miss your tomato-egg noodles," "Regret everything." Reading them stirred nothing—perhaps faint amusement. He merely missed being cared for. I deleted the message, blocked the number. My friend updated me: creditors, thwarted in finding his vanished mistress, now tormented him. Paint, scratches, threats compounded his misery.
A tentative ask
Driven out, he relocated and changed jobs. My friend deemed karma served. I felt detached; his troubles were no longer mine. The studio man confessed his feelings on a rainy weekend. We worked intently when he set down his brush, saying earnestly, "I find peace with you. Could we try?" I paused. "I need time," I replied. He nodded, resuming his painting in serene acceptance.
Cleansing the past
In that moment, clarity dawned: I’d stopped punishing myself with relics of pain. My birthday brought a parcel from my ex—a forgotten scarf from our past, enclosed with a lengthy letter lamenting how only now he realized my worth. Reading it, I felt neither ache nor rage, only vast distance. The scarf went to charity; the letter met the shredder.
Embracing the next chapter
Some things, like that outdated scarf, belong discarded. Currently, I contemplate moving closer to the studio. Last weekend, the painter accompanied me to view apartments, thoughtfully analyzing light sources for optimal painting conditions. Watching his focused profile, a thought emerged: perhaps offering him—and myself—a chance is the path forward. Life, after all, flows onward.