Two-timing

John leaned back on the bus seat, the engine humming softly under him. His phone rang, it was his wife. “Did you get to Sydney safely?” she asked, her voice gentle but tired.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” he said, glancing out the window. Their calls had become routine, almost mechanical. He loved her, but lately their conversations felt like checklists: bills, schedules, dinner plans, who’s picking up the kids.

As he hung up, a girl in her twenties slid into the seat beside him. She was fresh-faced, dressed casually, smelling of citrus and freedom.

“Hi,” she said with a smile that felt like summer.

“Hey,” John replied, surprised at how easily he smiled back.

They started talking as the bus pulled away. She was Tina, a graphic designer headed to Canberra for work. She laughed easily, asked about his job, his travels. She didn’t know him, yet she looked at him like he was interesting, like his stories mattered. It had been a long time since someone looked at him that way.

Three hours passed quickly. When the bus stopped, Tina shook his hand, leaned closer, and slipped a small card into his palm.

“Call me if you ever get bored,” she said, winking.

That night in his hotel room, John stared at the card. His mind was a storm.

Why did she give me this?
Maybe it’s just harmless.
But why does my heart beat faster?

He called her. They met the next day. Coffee turned into dinner, dinner turned into long walks, laughter, and quiet moments. For the first time in months, John felt alive.

Days passed and he found himself waiting for her texts more than his wife’s. She was fun, spontaneous, and made him feel like the younger version of himself, the one who still believed in love songs. Soon, he was considering the unthinkable: leaving his wife.

“I can’t believe how happy I am with you,” he told Tina one evening, his voice low.

She laughed softly. “Relax, John. We’re just having fun.”

The words hit him like cold water. “Fun?”

“Yes,” she said, shrugging. “I’m not looking for anything serious. I like you, but don’t go making plans for me.”

John froze. He had been ready to tear down his whole life for someone who wasn’t even planning to stay.

That night, guilt came crashing down on him. He saw his wife’s face in his mind, the woman who had held his hand through lean years, the one who believed in him when he almost gave up on his business. He remembered the small moments: the way she made his tea just right, the way she tucked the kids into bed and kissed their foreheads.

The next morning, John texted Tina a goodbye. “Thanks for reminding me what it feels like to feel alive,” he wrote, “but I’m going home to fix what I should have fixed long ago.”

When he got back, his wife was waiting at the airport, her tired smile softening when she saw him.

“Did you miss me?” she asked.

“More than I thought I could,” John replied, holding her tighter than usual.

That night, he didn’t scroll through his phone or pretend to be busy. He sat with her and talked, really talked. About how distant they had become, how he felt invisible, how lonely he had been. She listened. And for the first time in a long while, they both cried.

John didn’t tell her about Tina. Not because he wanted to hide, but because this was about rebuilding, not destroying.

He learned something on that trip: temptation feels sweet at first, but it is fleeting. Marriage, on the other hand, is soil, it only grows if you keep tending to it.

John chose to tend his soil.

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All images created with canva AI, i would like to invite @kwinberry @etoro @eliany to join the contest