Same mistake, Different day
The Illusion of Mercy
He always told her he never wanted to use her. His words were careful, laced with sympathy, dipped in empathy, as if he understood—truly understood—what she had been through. He had listened, nodded, felt for her. And she had believed him.
But then, he did it again.
For three months, he spoke to her in a way that made her feel like she was something to be cherished. Like she was wanted. Like she was his. His words were laced with yearning, pulling her in, making her believe that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.
And then he pushed her away.
For his own reasons. His own needs. As if none of it had ever meant anything.
She hated how he could agree with her—how he could sit there and acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, she had a point. That, yes, his dream car was more important. That, yes, she wasn’t a priority. But then, in the same breath, he had the audacity to ask if she was okay.
Okay?
He spoke so proudly of his dream wife. Right in front of her. Knowing how she felt. After everything he had said, after the way he had held her attention with words that felt too intimate to be meaningless.
Did he really have mercy on her?
And then, as if his cruelty wasn’t enough, he turned around and said he didn’t want love. Not now.
But what about the things he had told her?
What about the moments he had created?
Had he been using her all along? Or was he just too blind to see that he had become exactly the kind of person he once feared? The kind of person who knows what it’s like to be treated like nothing—yet does the same thing to someone else.
And when she finally asked him why, he gave the most pathetic excuse of all.
"I was just learning you."
Learning her? As if she were some subject to study. Some puzzle to solve. Some game to play.
She had loved him. And he had made her believe he could love her.
But maybe all she ever was to him—was practice.