Journal entry: March 3rd

Location: The goddamn coffee shop. Across the street. Where I always am.

I don’t even know why I’m writing this. Maybe if I get the words out of my head, they’ll stop echoing so loudly. Maybe if I force them onto the page, I’ll finally see how absurd all of this is. How ridiculous. How wrong.

Or maybe—God help me—I just want to remember.

They’re at the restaurant again. Our restaurant. Or at least, it was ours, once. Now it belongs to them. Rod and Jason. The happy couple. The perfect pair. The ones who fit together like puzzle pieces while I sit here alone, watching.

Rod is laughing. I can’t hear it—they’re clear across the street—but I know that laugh. It’s his real laugh—the one where his shoulders shake, the one that lights up his entire face. I used to think that laugh belonged to me.

Jason is leaning close to him now. His lips are hovering just near Rod’s ear. I’m sure he’s saying something intimate. Rod is tilting his head and smiling. Fuck, is he blushing? My stomach clenches so hard it feels like I’ve been punched.

I want to look away from them, but I can’t. The keyboard clicks violently beneath my fingers, the only sound anchoring me to this stupid table in this stupid coffee shop, where I’ve been exiled like some pathetic ghost hunting his own life.

Observation 1: Rod is wearing the navy-blue button down I bought him for our anniversary. The one that makes his eyes look like the ocean right before a storm. He knows how much I love it.

Observation 2: Jason has his hand on Rod’s thigh. He’s casual and confident, like he’s always had the right to touch him that way. Like I’m the outsider.

I shift in my seat, the pressure between my legs a constant, aching reminder.

Jason is speaking again. Rod listens so intently whenever Jason opens his mouth, chin resting on his palm, gaze fixed on Jason like he’s the most fascinating person in the world. Like he’s hungry for every word.

Rod used to look at me like that.

My coffee is ice cold now, bitter and stale, but I don’t care. I go through the motions, pressing the ceramic to my lips just to have something to do. Just to keep from reaching down and adjusting the cage—not that I can, not really.

Rod’s fingers are brushing Jason’s wrist now. It’s a fleeting touch, so subtle that most people probably wouldn’t notice. But I do.

Of course I do.

Because that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?

To watch.

Observation 3: Jason is perfect.

I hate even typing that, but it’s true. He’s the kind of beautiful that doesn’t seem real, like something conjured from a gay fever dream. His shirt is unbuttoned just enough to tease the sharp cut of his collarbone and the sculpted lines of his chest. His skin glows under the candlelight, warm and golden, like he’s been kissed by the sun itself.

I’m shifting my weight to get the tightness of the chastity cage off my mind. I’m gritting my teeth.

I know what Jason smells like. Leather and musk and something sweet underneath. I know how he moves. Slow and deliberate, like he has all the time in the world because the world already belongs to him. I know what he sounds like when he whispers things in Rod’s ear—things that make my husband laugh, blush, and shiver.

I know too much.

And yet, I don’t know how I got here.

Rod tells me that I wanted this. He says I asked for it. He says that this was what makes me happiest—watching him with someone else, knowing he might be married to me, but he belongs to another man.

At first, I fought it. I know I did. Didn’t I?

But Rod was patient, and Jason was always there, watching, waiting, and smiling like he already knew how this story would end.

And now here I am. Sitting in a café, locked up and locked out, staring at the man I married as he presses his palm over another man’s hand, as their fingers entwine across the table.

I feel like I should cry. Or scream. Or do something. Anything.

But I don’t. I just watch.

Rod turns his head, eyes flicking toward the window. Toward me.

I freeze.

He holds my gaze for just a second, his lips curving—soft, affectionate. Knowing.

My breath stutters. I press my thighs together, the metal between my legs unyielding, a constant, aching reminder of what I am and what I’ll never again get to experience.

Rod looks away first. He turns back to Jason, smile widening, and the conversation flows on, effortless and uninterrupted. As if I were never here at all.

I exhale, slow and shaky. My fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitating. Then, I start typing again. Because if I’m not part of the story anymore, at least I can write it down.

At least I can remember. At least I can watch.

Maybe Rod was right.

Maybe I do love this.

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