I Write Stories About People I Know
This site is not fiction for me. I change names. I change cities. The bones are real and nobody has recognized themselves yet.
I publish here. I change names. I change cities. I change one telling detail so the spine stays secret.
The barista. The neighbor. The man from conference room B.
Nobody has recognized themselves yet.
That's luck, not ethics.
I tell myself fiction is processing. Therapist says disclosure without consent harms.
I keep writing because desire needs somewhere to go that isn't a text sent at 1 a.m.
If you recognize yourself in a story: it might be you. It might be three people blended.
I'm sorry and not sorry—the way confessors always are when the altar is anonymous and the amen is a view count.
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More Confessions
I Let My Best Friend's Husband Drive Me Home
Wine dinner. She went to bed early. He offered a ride. We sat in the driveway twenty minutes and I wanted to be the villain of my own story.
I Told My Wife I Was Asexual
It was a lie to cover low desire caused by an affair I had ended. She believed me. She stopped initiating. I miss her touch and deserve the silence.
I Fantasize About Being Caught
Not by my partner—by someone who would look at me like I finally exist. The fantasy is specific and has never happened and might ruin me if it did.
I Reacted to My Ex's Post With a Fire Emoji
He posted a gym selfie at 11 p.m. My finger did it before my brain. His girlfriend replied with a skull emoji. I have not slept.
My Therapist Said Name the Feeling. I Said Him.
Forty dollars a copay to say out loud what my marriage already knew in silence.
We Only Speak in a Language My Husband Doesn't Know
French from college. He's fluent. My husband thinks we're discussing wine regions at dinner parties.
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