After my partner slept with someone else, I wanted out. But we tried something radical: honesty without rules. This is how we rebuilt—differently, stronger.
Personal Note
This article is written in a personal voice and structured for comfort reading: short paragraphs, clear headings, and practical next steps.
2018年に恋人が他の誰かと寝たと聞いたとき、わたしの世界は音もなく崩れた。彼女とは5年付き合っていて、結婚も視野に入れていた。でも彼女は隠さなかった—ある夜、涙を流しながら「出逢い系アプリで知り合った人に会った」と言った。私は怒ったし、馬鹿にされた気もしたけど、なんでか「終わりだ」と言えなかった。
家を出たのは3日後。でも3週間後、彼女から届いた手紙を読んだ。10ページあった。全部手書きで、何も正当化せず、ただ「自分が何を失いかけてるか」を書いた。それを読んで、ふと気づいた。わたしは「浮気相手」より「彼女が隠さなかったこと」に救われてるのかも、と。
戻ったのは簡単じゃない。信頼は壊れたまま。でも、わたしたちはルールを全部捨てた。カウンセリングも試したけど、合わなかった。代わりに決めたのは「週に1回、1時間だけ何でも言える時間」。そこで彼女が言った「あのとき寂しかった」に、私は初めて「わたしもそうだった」と答えられた。言葉にすると、共感が生まれた。悲しみを共有したら、攻撃じゃなくなる。
LGBTQカップルって、社会から承認されにくい分、内部で完璧な関係を作ろうとする傾向があると思う。でも完璧は脆い。わたしたちは「ふさわしい関係」より「正直な関係」を選ぶことにした。今はオープンな関係じゃないけど、閉じてはいない。時々、彼女が「あの人とどうだった？」と聞く。わたしも答える。答えることで、過去が軽くなる。
再構築は毎日を選ぶこと。今日もまた、一緒にいるって決めること。
When my girlfriend told me she slept with someone she met on a dating app in 2018, I didn't scream or throw anything—I just sat on the bathroom floor and stared at the tiles until my legs went numb. We had been together five years, talked about moving in, even joked about growing old with matching canes. But that night, something cracked. And still—I didn’t leave right away.
I packed my things three days later. Stayed at my sister’s place in Shinjuku. For two weeks I didn’t answer her calls. Then came the letter. Ten pages. Handwritten. No excuses—just her trying to explain how loneliness crept in even when we were together, how she didn’t want to hurt me but didn’t know how to ask for what she needed.
I cried while reading it—not just from pain, but because it felt honest. Like maybe the real betrayal wasn’t the sex but the years we both pretended everything was fine.
We didn’t go to couples therapy. The one session we tried felt like performing for a judge. Instead, we made our own rule: one hour every Sunday night, no distractions, where anything could be said. No filtering. No scorekeeping. First few times were brutal. I asked if she compared us—the sex, the attention, the way I touch her. She didnt flinch. Said yes, sometimes, and that made her feel guilty and confused.
So I said, me too. I’ve wondered what it would feel like with someone new—someone who doesn’t know my scars or how I hate being woken up.
That changed everything. We weren’t just the betrayed and the betrayer anymore. We were two tired people trying to stop lying—to each other, to ourselves.
Like, I used to think LGBTQ relationships had to be flawless to prove we deserved love. But that pressure? It suffocates. We started letting in the mess. Talking about attraction outside the relationship without collapsing into jealousy. Admitting when we felt disconnected—not just after the affair, but months before.
Now, we don’t have an open relationship, but we’re not closed either. We check in—sometimes with words, sometimes just a look across the room. Last month she asked, out of nowhere, “Do you think I’ll do it again?” Instead of getting defensive I said, “I don’t know. But I’ll stay honest if it ever feels possible.”
And she said, “Then I’ll stay too.”
We had our anniversary last week. No grand gesture. Just ramen, her burnt toast, and the same old futon. But we talked the whole night—about grief, about fear, about how trust isnt a thing you fix like a broken shelf—it’s something you rebuild daily, unevenly, with mismatched pieces.
It’s not perfect. I still get flashes of that bathroom floor. But now I reach for her hand instead of the door.
And that—more than forgiveness—is how we stayed.
