I always knew he was married.
It was never a secret — he said it upfront, like a man reciting terms and conditions.
“I’m married, but emotionally checked out,” he told me on our first call.
And I nodded, pretending detachment was something I was good at.
For months, our arrangement felt easy.
He was generous, predictable, gentle in the way men are when they’re trying to convince themselves they’re still good people.
He never said love. I never said lonely.
It was clean, or so I told myself.
Then his birthday came.
I didn’t text him — boundaries, right? That’s what we do.
But that evening, there was a knock on my door. A delivery guy holding white lilies.
The note read:
“I wish it was you next to me.”
I stared at it for a long time. Longer than I should have.
Because I suddenly understood — this wasn’t a transaction anymore.
It was a rehearsal. A dangerous one.
After that night, things shifted.
He started sending photos of his dog, of his dinner, of hotel rooms that weren’t mine.
He’d text “thinking of you” while tagging his wife in family pictures on Facebook.
And I hated that I noticed.
Once, I asked, “Do you ever feel guilty?”
He said, “No. You make me feel human again.”
I wanted to ask if his wife stopped doing that, but I swallowed it.
Because it wasn’t my place — and yet, it was killing me that it wasn’t.
The worst part wasn’t knowing he’d never leave her.
It was realizing he didn’t have to — because he already had everything he needed.
A wife for stability.
Me for the version of himself he wished he could still be.
He once told me, “You’re like breathing fresh air after years underground.”
And all I could think was:
That’s the thing about air — you can’t keep it. You just borrow it until you have to go back inside.
He ended it before summer. Said his wife was “getting suspicious.”
No drama, no long speech. Just a short message:
“Thank you for reminding me what it felt like to feel.”
I deleted his number that same night.
But the truth is, I still think about those lilies sometimes — how beautiful they looked on the table, how much they felt like an apology I didn’t deserve.
End line:
Sugar dating isn’t pretending to love — it’s learning how to lose softly, over and over again.
Top Comments
[softconfession]
“Sugar dating isn’t pretending to love — it’s learning how to lose softly.” That line punched me right in the chest. You nailed it.
[quietburnout]
This is why I can’t do arrangements with married men. You always end up becoming the part of their life they wish they could admit to — but never will.
[exsugarbabyhere]
The flower delivery hit hard. They always send gifts when they can’t send themselves.
[truthandgrayareas]
Not every SD is cruel — some are just lonely. But that doesn’t make the outcome less painful.
[softskeptic]
You knew what it was, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. That’s the hardest truth about this world.
[lonelySDthrowaway]
As a married man reading this… I think you saw him more clearly than he saw himself.
[emptysundays]
“He didn’t need to leave her — he already had everything he needed.” Oof. That line stayed with me.
