XSTORIES4U: Tales of Love, Lies, and Betrayal - Book 2

Part 38 Confession on Live TV: A Heartbreaking Illusion Revealed!

The moment his face appeared on the TV, I felt a mix of pride and anxiety. He was being interviewed on a national show, a big step for his career, and I was ready to support him from the comfort of our living room. But as the host's questions shifted to personal topics, my heart rate quickened. Then, without warning, he confessed to having feelings for someone else, eyes sparkling with a sincerity that made my stomach churn. The audience gasped, but I was frozen, hearing his words echoing in my mind. Our last argument replayed in my head; he had insisted I wouldn't understand his "connection" with his co-star. I had laughed it off, trusting him, believing it was just the stress of the spotlight. As the interview continued, he described her as his muse, the inspiration behind his recent work, a revelation that felt like a knife twisting deeper with every detail. I realized, with a sudden clarity, that while I had been living in a comfortable illusion, he had been drifting into a reality where I was little more than a shadow, a mere background figure to the life he now seemed eager to share with someone else. My hands trembled as I gripped the remote, paralyzed between turning off the TV and watching him unravel our relationship in front of a national audience.

The host's eyes widened with intrigue, pressing him for more details about his "muse." He hesitated, just for a second, his gaze flickering as if realizing the weight of his confession—but then he nodded, committed to his story, and continued. He painted a picture of a "deep, soulful connection," claiming this person had helped him "unlock" parts of himself he didn't know existed. He said he was grateful, feeling more alive than ever, and I could see the energy radiating from him, an energy I hadn't seen in years.

I was too stunned to cry, too numb to even feel anger. All I could feel was the loss—the slow, creeping cold that flooded my veins as I sat alone, feeling the walls of our once-warm home grow unfamiliar and distant.

But then something strange happened. Just as the host started asking about future projects, he cut her off. "Actually," he said, his voice almost hesitant, "there's something I haven't shared yet... with anyone." The host's curiosity was piqued, and she leaned in. "This muse of mine, she's... elusive. A mystery. I haven't even met her properly." He looked down, swallowing, as if the weight of his own words surprised him.

The audience buzzed, murmuring, unsure what he meant. He continued, struggling with each word. "She's not real," he confessed, almost whispering. "She only exists in my mind."

The host blinked, processing his words, and the audience fell silent.

He went on, his tone turning darker, confessional. "At first, I thought she was just inspiration—a way to tap into my creativity. But then... she started taking over. I would see her everywhere, hear her voice in my mind. She's all I think about. And, well... that's why I haven't been present, not with my family, not even with myself. I feel like I'm losing control, like I'm losing... myself." He finally looked directly at the camera, as though he could see me through the lens. "And in the process, I'm losing the one real thing I've ever had."

The weight of his words crashed over me like a wave. I had thought he was pulling away because of someone else, someone flesh and blood, but here he was confessing to being haunted by a phantom. A woman he had created, an illusion, an obsession that had consumed him. I didn't know whether to feel relief or despair. The truth was stranger than I could have imagined, and somehow, infinitely more painful.

The host, stunned, tried to regain composure. "So... what now? Where does this leave you... and her?" She hesitated, probably meaning me, though he hadn't even said my name.

He took a deep breath. "I don't know. But I want to find my way back—to her, to reality."

The camera zoomed out, signaling the end of the segment, and the screen cut to commercial. I stared at the now blank screen, numb yet shaken, feeling a strange mix of relief and confusion. But before I could process it all, my phone buzzed on the coffee table. It was a text—from him.

"I know you saw that. Please, can we talk? I need you."

For a moment, I considered replying. But then, with a resolve I hadn't felt in months, I stood, slipped on my coat, and walked out of the house, leaving my phone—and his pleas for forgiveness—behind. As I closed the door, I felt the strange, liberating calm of stepping out of a story that had, in the end, been nothing more than a beautiful, tragic illusion.