A decade and a half has passed. We’ve both moved on. I’ve lost most of my hair and you’ve gained some weight. It was doomed from the get-go: Me, a married man with four little kids; you, a coworker. All the elements of a gigantic mistake, yet we let it fester. I told you I loved you, and I guess I did. You said the same, and I guess you did. We pretended we had some kind of future, with hand holding and secret lunches. But I wasn’t willing to upend my life, and you weren’t willing to wait. For sure, you did some damage to me. My marriage suffered, and so did my career. I had it coming and have paid a price. But it never occurred to me that maybe I did some damage to you, too. One thing you said still lingers, 15 years later: During the last ugly fight, you asked, “Did you ever think about my feelings?” When I was unbuttoning your shirt and kissing your neck and calling you every night, when I spoke of getaways or birthdays or how much I missed you—I enjoyed all that, and thought you did, too. But: “Did you ever think about my feelings?” The answer is no, I didn’t. And I still don’t. —Anonymous