He told me he was “separated,” but that word always felt like an apology wearing perfume.
We met on SugarDaddyMeet — he said he was looking for “connection without chaos.”
I laughed and said, “That’s not a thing. Chaos always shows up eventually.”
And it did.
The first time he came over unannounced, it was raining.
He said, “I just needed space.”
He stayed the night, holding me like a man drowning and pretending it was love.
The next morning, he left early, texted me: “Thanks for not asking questions.”
I didn’t reply.
Because deep down, I already knew — I wasn’t his freedom.
I was his hiding place.
It became a pattern.
Every fight he had with his wife ended with a knock on my door.
He’d bring a bottle of wine, talk about how lonely he felt in his own house, how she “stopped seeing him years ago.”
I’d listen, tell myself I was just being kind.
But kindness started to taste like self-betrayal.
He’d kiss me like confession, sleep like he finally found peace, then wake up and whisper, “I have to go before she wakes.”
I told myself it was fine — that I understood my role.
But every time he left, the silence he left behind grew heavier.
It started to feel less like affection, more like residue.
The third time he came back, his wedding ring was gone.
He said, “It’s over this time. I mean it.”
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe him so badly.
We spent two days pretending we were something real — cooking, laughing, being soft.
Then on the third day, he got a phone call.
He walked into the kitchen, voice low.
I heard him say, “Of course I’m coming home.”
I didn’t cry when he left. Not that time.
I just stood there, looking at the empty space he’d filled with lies that sounded like love.
I realized then: I wasn’t his escape. I was his excuse.
He texted me a week later:
“I miss you. You’re the only person who ever really gets me.”
I stared at the message until it faded into my lock screen.
I didn’t answer.
Because maybe I did get him.
And maybe that’s the problem.
He was never mine — he just borrowed my quiet when his own life got too loud.
End line:
Some people don’t love you; they just rest in you until they remember where they belong.
Top Comments
[heartonlayaway]
The “I wasn’t his freedom. I was his hiding place.” line hit like a punch. I think every sugar baby has lived some version of this.
[slowburntruths]
This isn’t even about sugar dating — it’s about being someone’s emotional motel. Temporary comfort, permanent damage.
[marriedbutlonely]
As a married SD, this stings. We tell ourselves it’s love, but it’s really guilt dressed up as affection.
[softrebellion]
The moment he removed the ring, you stopped being his secret and became his sin. Powerful writing.
[exSBthrowaway]
I once had someone who said I was his “peace.” But peace shouldn’t hurt this much to keep.
[rationalromantic]
You knew he wasn’t staying, but you still left the door unlocked. That’s the part that makes this story human.
[quietconfession]
“Some people don’t love you; they just rest in you.” Damn. That line belongs in every diary ever written about almost-love.
