I don’t cheat.
I don’t lie.
I don’t gamble.
I don’t drink.
I’ve never even looked at another woman the way I look at her.
But once or twice a month, after my wife falls asleep, I do something she would never expect.
Something she’d be hurt by if she found out.
Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s something I’ve never shared with her.
I sneak out into the backyard…
And I eat an entire pizza.
And 8 hot wings.
Alone.
Not in front of the TV. Not in the kitchen. Not even in the garage.
In the backyard. At midnight. In the dark.
On an old patio chair. Under the stars.
Wrapped in the kind of silence I used to find in her arms.
It sounds ridiculous, I know. But let me explain.
It started about a year ago.
We were going through a rough patch.
No big fights. No infidelity. Just… silence.
The kind of silence that slowly grows between two people until you realize you’re no longer talking—you’re just coexisting.
We stopped asking each other how we were doing.
We stopped watching movies together.
We even ate dinner at different times sometimes, because one of us “wasn’t hungry yet.”
One night, after she fell asleep early, I couldn’t take the stillness of the house.
So I ordered a pizza. Medium. Pepperoni and mushrooms.
And wings—hot, crispy, extra sauce.
I didn’t eat it inside. I didn’t want the smell to linger.
I took it outside.
Sat down. And just… ate.
No phone. No distractions. Just me, the pizza, and the night air.
I could hear the hum of the streetlights. Distant cars. My own breathing.
And for the first time in months, I felt full—not just in my stomach.
I didn’t plan for it to become a ritual.
But it did.
Once or twice a month.
Always after she was asleep.
Always quietly.
Always outside.
I’d order something slightly different each time.
Sometimes BBQ wings. Sometimes stuffed crust.
Once I even got a 2-liter soda and drank it straight from the bottle.
I felt like a teenager again. Rebellious. Secretive. Alive.
And the strange thing?
I loved that she didn’t know.
That this was mine.
Something purely for me.
In a life where everything I did—my job, my chores, my compromises—was shared or given, this was one corner of the world that was untouched.
Until one night… it almost came undone.
She woke up while I was outside.
I came in, hands scrubbed, box in the outside bin, breath mint in mouth.
She blinked at me and asked, “Were you… outside?”
I froze.
Just for a second.
“Yeah,” I said. “Just needed some air. Couldn’t sleep.”
She nodded. Rolled over.
Didn’t ask again.
Didn’t even hug me.
That was when it hit me.
It wasn’t just about the food.
It wasn’t about craving wings. Or pizza. Or fresh air.
It was about craving escape.
A few nights ago, I went bigger.
Large pizza. 8 wings.
I even used a coupon.
Sat outside and devoured it like it was my last meal.
I tapped out at 4.5 slices.
Not because I was full.
But because I felt… guilty.
More than usual.
I looked through the window.
She was curled up on the couch, asleep again. Alone.
We used to cuddle up together like that.
Now, I knew exactly how long it took for her to drift off after her tea.
I timed my secrets around it.
I sat out there, hands greasy, stomach full, heart aching.
And for the first time… I wanted her to know.
I wanted her to find me.
To come out and ask what I was doing.
To yell. To cry. To laugh. To feel something.
But she didn’t.
She never does.
Last night, I decided I’d tell her.
I even wrote a little note to leave on the pillow.
“I have a secret. I eat pizza and wings by myself at night. Not because I’m hungry. But because I miss feeling anything at all.”
But when I got to the bedroom—
She wasn’t there.
There was a letter on the bed.
And suddenly, my secret didn’t matter anymore.
She had been cheating on me.
For six months.
With a coworker.
She said she didn’t know how to tell me.
Said she felt lonely.
Said we were both pretending to be married.
Said she noticed the pizza boxes in the outside bin and figured I had someone over too.
She thought I was the one cheating.
Because of the wings.
Because of the breath mints.
Because I came back to bed quietly, and smiled in my sleep.
We had both been eating alone at night.
But she had someone across the table.
And I had… nothing but a crust in my lap.
So here I am now.
The ritual’s over.
No more secret orders. No more coupons. No more hiding food like it’s some kind of love affair.
Because the truth is… it wasn’t about food.
It was about hunger.
For connection.
For touch.
For being seen.
For the version of love that doesn’t die quietly behind locked doors and empty glances.
TL;DR:
I wasn’t cheating.
I was just eating pizza under the stars to remember what life felt like.
Turns out… she was cheating.
And thought I was too.
Because happiness leaves traces.
Even in pizza grease.
