We were celebrating our housewarming when suddenly the lights went out. While searching for candles, I caught a glimpse of my husband holding hands with our neighbor in the dark…

We were having a housewarming party in our new apartment. We invited friends, colleagues, and neighbors from the building—we wanted to get to know people and become part of the new community. We set the table, turned on some music, and everything was perfect.

Among the guests was a neighbor from the third floor. Young, pretty, lives alone. We met a week ago in the elevator—she helped me carry my bags and seemed nice and friendly. I invited her to the housewarming, thinking we could become friends.

In the midst of the evening, the power suddenly went out. Everyone laughed, someone joked about fuses. I went to the kitchen to look for candles—we had just moved in, hadn’t unpacked everything yet, but I was sure I had put them somewhere in the cupboard.

Fumbling in the darkness through the drawers, I caught a glimpse with the corner of my eye—in the living room, in the dim light, my husband was holding the neighbor’s hand. They were standing by the window, a little away from the other guests. I froze.

They were whispering to each other. Her voice was tense, almost pleading. He held her hand and was saying something quietly, soothingly.

I turned on the flashlight on my phone—suddenly, directing the beam at them. They both flinched and immediately let go of each other’s hands. The neighbor stepped back and muttered something about being startled in the dark and almost tripping. My husband nodded, supporting her version.

A minute later the lights came back on. The guests didn’t notice anything and continued having fun. I stood there with a pack of candles in my hand, feeling an icy chill inside.

The evening went on. I smiled at the guests, poured wine, and joined in conversations. But I kept an eye on them the whole time. My husband avoided my gaze. The neighbor was one of the first to leave, quickly saying goodbye without looking into my eyes.

When the last guests left, I asked my husband directly: “What was that?”

He put on a surprised face: “What are you talking about?”

“You were holding her hand. In the dark.”

He shrugged: “She was scared. I was just calming her down. You saw—she almost fell.”

I didn’t believe him. Something in his tone, in his eyes, told me—he was lying.

That night, after my husband fell asleep, I took his phone. I knew the code—he never hid it. I opened the messenger. And saw their conversation.

The messages spanned months. It started six months ago—even before we bought this apartment.

It turned out they met on a dating site. They secretly met while I was at work. Rented hotel rooms. Messaged each other every day—tender, intimate messages.

Then we bought the apartment. Coincidentally—in the building where she lives. My husband got scared and texted her: “We’re moving into your building. We need to be more careful.”

She replied: “Maybe it’s a sign? That it’s time to stop hiding?”

He wrote: “Not now. Give me time. I’ll tell my wife, but it needs to be gentle. I don’t want to hurt her suddenly.”

The last messages were from this evening. Before the housewarming. She wrote: “I can’t take it anymore. Seeing you together, pretending to be just a neighbor. It’s killing me.”

He replied: “Hold on. I’ll tell her everything after the party. I promise.”

I sat in the dark in the kitchen and reread their conversation. Six months of lies. Six months of a double life. We chose this apartment together, planned our future, made renovations. And he was seeing her.

The housewarming wasn’t a celebration of a new life. It was his last attempt to pretend everything was fine before everything fell apart.

In the morning, I put his phone on the table between us. I said: “I saw everything.”

He didn’t deny it. He sat silently, with his head down. Then he quietly said: “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

I asked: “Do you love her?”

He nodded.

I asked: “When did it start?”

He replied: “Six months ago. I didn’t plan for this. It just happened.”

I looked at the person I had spent eight years with. Shared a bed, dreams, plans. And I didn’t recognize him.

I asked one last thing: “Why did you invite her to the housewarming? Why put both of us through this?”

He looked up, and there was pain in his eyes: “I thought… if she saw us together, in our home, she’d understand it was impossible. That I couldn’t leave you.”

I laughed bitterly: “But you were going to. You were going to tell me ‘after the party’.”

He was silent.

It’s been a week now. I’m staying with a friend. My husband remains in that apartment—in our new home, which was supposed to be the start of a happy life. The neighbor still lives one floor below.

He texts me every day. Apologizes, says it was a mistake, that he wants to fix everything. But I don’t know—can you fix six months of lies? Can you live in an apartment where his lover lives a floor below? Can you forgive someone who turned our housewarming into a farewell performance?

If you were in my shoes—what would you do? Would you forgive and try to start over? Or are there things that can’t be forgiven, even if someone is truly sorry? And how do you move on, knowing your happiness fell apart in a second—when the lights went out and you saw what you weren’t supposed to see?

***

We were celebrating a housewarming party in our new apartment and invited friends and neighbors. Among the guests was our neighbor from the third floor – I invited her myself, hoping to become friends. In the middle of the evening, the lights suddenly went out. While I was looking for candles, I caught a glimpse of my husband taking our neighbor’s hand in the darkness. I quickly turned on my phone’s flashlight – they flinched and immediately let go. The neighbor started talking about being afraid of the dark, and my husband nodded, supporting her. But I could see that something had been going on between them. That night, when my husband fell asleep, I couldn’t take it anymore and…
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