The days that followed my deepening entanglement with Jayson were a blur of emotions. By day, I meticulously handled office tasks, my demeanor professional and composed. By night, my mind churned with thoughts that refused to let me sleep. In the stillness of my room, illuminated only by the faint glow of the streetlights outside, I wrestled with the undeniable guilt that had begun to creep into my heart.
At first, I tried to push it aside. Guilt, after all, was for those who had the luxury to choose morality over survival. I didn't. My mother's warnings rang in my ears, her voice a persistent echo in the back of my mind. Yet, every time the guilt threatened to overwhelm me, I reminded myself of why I was doing this. Why I had to.
"You deserve more than this," Jayson's words replayed in my memory, a seductive promise that quieted my conscience. When he whispered those words, I believed him. I wanted to believe him.
Still, there were moments when the reality of my actions clawed at me. Jayson had a wife—a beautiful, poised woman who occasionally visited the office. She'd smile warmly at everyone, her elegance a stark contrast to my thrift-store blouses and scuffed heels. Watching her glide through the office was a painful reminder of what I wasn't. And yet, I was the one Jayson wanted. That thought filled me with both a twisted sense of validation and a deep pang of shame.
"It's not your fault," I whispered to myself one night, lying on the cot in the corner of our cramped flat. My mother's soft snores filled the silence, a stark contrast to the chaos in my mind. "He made the first move. He's the one breaking vows, not you."
But even as I spoke the words, they felt hollow. It didn't matter who started it. I was complicit. I knew it, and no amount of rationalizing could change that. Still, I clung to the belief that this was temporary, a means to an end. I wasn't stealing him—just borrowing his power, his influence. Was that so wrong?
I thought back to the promises I'd made to myself: to rise above the suffocating poverty of my childhood, to give my mother a better life, to carve out a future that didn't involve counting pennies and wearing secondhand dreams. Jayson was a stepping stone, I told myself. An opportunity I couldn't afford to pass up.
"You're doing this for her," I thought, glancing at my mother's sleeping form. Her face was etched with the lines of worry and sacrifice, her hands rough from years of cleaning houses and scrubbing floors. She deserved so much more than this one-room flat, this life of endless toil. And I was the only one who could give it to her.
But even that justification felt fragile. Was I really doing this for her? Or was I doing it for myself, for the thrill of being wanted, for the taste of power that came with Jayson's attention? The line between selflessness and selfishness blurred, and I wasn't sure where I stood anymore.
At work, I kept my head down, avoiding the curious glances of my colleagues. They must have noticed the subtle changes: the way Jayson lingered in my vicinity, the way his tone softened when he spoke to me, the small, expensive trinkets that began appearing on my desk. A scarf one day, a delicate bracelet the next. Each gift was a reminder of the choices I was making, and the price I would eventually pay.
One afternoon, as I sat at my desk organizing files, one of my coworkers, Linda, approached me. She was older, with kind eyes and a motherly demeanor that made her a favorite among the staff. She placed a cup of coffee on my desk and sat in the chair beside me.
"How are you holding up, Alis?" she asked, her voice gentle.
I forced a smile. "I'm fine. Why do you ask?"
She hesitated, her gaze searching mine. "You've been working late a lot lately. Just wanted to make sure you're not overdoing it."
"I'm fine," I repeated, my voice firmer this time. "I appreciate the concern, though."
She nodded, but her eyes lingered on me a moment longer before she stood. "If you ever need to talk, my door's always open."
"Thanks," I said, watching her walk away. Her kindness only deepened the weight on my chest. Did she know? Did everyone?
That evening, as I walked home, I replayed the conversation in my mind. Linda's words had been innocent enough, but they stirred something in me. A nagging fear that my carefully constructed facade was beginning to crack.
When I arrived home, my mother was waiting for me. She sat at the table, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were filled with a quiet intensity that made my stomach churn.
"You're late again," she said simply.
"I had work," I replied, avoiding her gaze.
"Work," she repeated, her tone laced with skepticism. "Is that all it is, Alis?"
I froze, my heart pounding. "What else would it be?"
She sighed, her shoulders sagging. "I'm not blind, Alis. I see the changes. The gifts. The late nights. You think I don't know what's going on?"
"You don't understand," I snapped, the words escaping before I could stop them. "I'm doing this for us. For you."
"For me?" she said, her voice rising. "Don't you dare use me as an excuse. This isn't about me, Alis. This is about you. Your choices. Your greed."
Her words cut deep, but I refused to let them show. "I'm trying to make a better life for us," I said through gritted teeth. "Is that so wrong?"
She shook her head, tears glistening in her eyes. "Not like this. Not at the cost of your integrity, your soul."
I turned away, unable to face her. "You don't understand," I muttered.
"Maybe I don't," she said softly. "But I know this: the path you're on, it doesn't lead to happiness. It leads to heartache."
Her words stayed with me long after I retreated to my corner of the room. As I lay on my cot, staring at the ceiling, I clung to my justifications, repeating them like a mantra. "I'm doing this for us. The ends justify the means."
But deep down, I couldn't ignore the growing fear that I was losing a part of myself—a part I might never get back.