I'm Merk, 32 years old, a simple dance instructor who once dreamed of escaping the hardships of life. Every time I taught ballroom dancing to older women and men, my only goal was to survive. Until one night, during a private class, he arrived.
A 67-year-old widow, elegant, stylish, and obviously well-off. She was quiet at first, but always smiling. With each dance we performed, she gradually drew me closer—not only on stage, but also in my personal life.
I was surprised when he invited us to lunch at his mansion. Me and my co-instructor friend. He welcomed us warmly. He had no children, no permanent housemate. It seemed like something was missing in his life—and we were the ones he filled.
Soon, he asked if we wanted to live there. He said he would give us everything—shelter, food, allowance, supplies. What was in return? Him.
In the midst of everything, we agreed. Not out of love. But out of necessity.
From then on, my friend and I became his “wives”. A big bed. A house. A woman with wealth, and two men trying to convince themselves that everything was okay.
But as time went on, I couldn't stand myself anymore. Every night, I felt like I was a tool. I didn't know who I was anymore. Every time I saw myself in the mirror, the once simple man with dreams had been replaced by a man who made happiness into a measure of gold.
I'm disgusted. With him. With the situation. With myself.
I tried to walk away. Walk away from the lies, from the luxury, from the bed. But every time I tried, he would cry. He said he loved us both. It was like we were the last part of the world he had. And because of that, I was always tied back.
But for how long? How much can I tolerate in exchange for comfort? Am I truly happy, or am I just a captive redeemed from hunger?
Now, this is the secret I carry every day: that I, a man of honor before, lived in a relationship where I didn't know if there was true love—or just pure fear of loss.
I apologize, not only to him, but especially to myself.
