The house is quiet. I place my keys on the dining table and walk through the living room. It's dark, but I hear the steady hum of a fan. He must have left it on and then got called into work because I don't hear him, I think to myself. But then I hear a noise coming from an upstairs bedroom. Was that a giggle or a cough, or maybe something else? I can't tell. The sound is too far away.

I slowly make my way up the stairs. "Hello?" I call out. But I don't receive a response. Maybe Jonathan is home and taking a shower. I approach our bedroom. The door is closed but there is a light on. I turn the knob and push the door open. The stereo is on and I hear our familiar song playing its soulful melody:

"If the stars don't shine, if the moon won't rise, if I never see the setting sun again, you won't hear me cry, this I testify, please believe me, boy, you know I won't lie, you and me, you and me…"

I blink back the light of the room as my eyes adjust. At first nothing seems amiss. I notice our rumpled white comforter on the bed and it's moving rhythmically. "Jonathan?" I ask. But before I hear anything else, I now know what I'm looking at, and I'm having a hard time believing it. My eyes burn, and I blink, but when I open them again, I know everything is now changed. My life is irrevocably altered.

"Babe, what are you doing home? I thought you were working?" Jonathan stammers, holding the comforter up to his chin.

At first, I'm too stunned to say anything. And then I scream, and once I open my mouth, I can't stop. Words spill out of my mouth like water from a fire hose. "Get out! You bastard, get out! Now! Just get out!" Hot tears are spilling out of my eyes, and I hate myself for crying. I should be stronger than this. My strong-willed mother raised me, and if she were here right now, she'd tell me to be tougher than this. I can almost hear her voice in my ear, with its deep, serious tone, telling me that this man doesn't deserve me. He isn't worth crying about. But I'm devastated—there is no question about it—and the hurt that's coursing through me drowns that all out.

"We can work this out," Jonathan pleads. He's getting out of our bed, naked, and holding a pillow in front of his erect cock. His hair is a mess and he runs his fingers through it. His face is flush; he seems scared, but he's forcing his mouth into a smile, and I can't help but look at his rows of perfectly white, straight teeth. I used to think they were a thing of beauty, and now I think they make him look fake, like a real-life talking mannequin, which reminds me of a horror movie. He extends his hand to mine, but I don't let him touch me. I swat it away and turn my body before crossing my arms defensively.

Before this moment, I thought he was the perfect man, even the man of my dreams. I believed that the fairy tale was possible—I bought into the Disney dream that said everyone had their soul mate—their hero on a white horse would come along, so long as you waited for him. I pictured us in this house with kids. I pictured the wedding. I even found myself day dreaming about what kind of flowers I'd use for our arrangements. Hell, I even thought we'd eventually have the mini-van and the weekday soccer practices. It was such a clear picture.

"I made a mistake," he pleads. "I swear this'll never happen again." I snatch his pillow and throw it across the room. I want him to feel just as exposed and vulnerable as I do in this moment.

"You're joking, right?" I ask, not waiting for an answer. "It's over."

And then I look back to the bed, and I see a woman looking for her bra. Her hands are fumbling through the sheets. She's trying to hold her beasts in her hands, but her bra is on the floor and when she finally sees it, she has to reach down and pick it up. Her breasts spill out and I am disgusted with how perfect they look. She refuses to make eye contact with me and her discomfort is palpable. Her hair has that "just fucked" look and she doesn't bother touching it. She's not the one I'm mad it. It's clear she's an unknowing victim.

"Get out!" I scream again. It's the only thing I can say. It feels as if the walls are crumbling around me—the home Jonathan and I built together, the rainy nights spent in front of the TV cuddling up to a movie, the laughs, all of the good memories—that is all replaced with what feels like a punch to my gut. Everything feels dead and the only way I know how to staunch the pain is to remove these people—to get them out of my sight for good.

They scramble for their clothes, and hop around the room on one leg, quickly trying to pull their bodies through jeans. They aren't moving fast enough and I can't stop screaming. I'm seeing and feeling red. My entire body is pulsing. "Get out! Get out! Get the fuck out!" The minutes seem like an eternity and they finally leave with their shoes tucked under their arms. The woman runs down the stairs, and Jonathan follows after her. He stops mid-way and looks back at me one last time before leaving the house for good. It's a pathetic look and I hate him for it.

As soon as I hear the front door close, I slump down against the bedroom wall and sob. It feels like my chest is cracking in half. Everything feels dark and broken. I vow to never trust another man so easily again—maybe ever. Maybe there's no such thing as a Mr. Right. Maybe it's all a lie.

All I know is that there's now a before and after. I'm no longer the person I was yesterday, or even a few minutes ago. I was once blind and trusting, but time has split me in two. I don't even know who I am anymore. I'm a new person now—the kind of person who has to reconcile the fact that the man who I thought was my best friend is actually part of a betrayal. It's sort of like being slapped and hugged at the same time.

I don't know who I am any longer, or where I'm going, but I'll be damned if I'm going to let myself sit here, shattered.