Satellites, Not Partners
I used to tell myself that what I had with Marte was just a friendship. But looking at it now, it wasn’t platonic at all — it was symbiosis.
I’d greet her every day with flirtations and plans for my morning, while she sent back snapshots of her children, her outfits, her meals. Our rhythm was easy. Natural. Intimate.
And at the very same timestamps, I was arguing with my girlfriend.
This was the pattern. I avoided her while givingmy warmth and attention to someone else. Marte wasn’t just my breath of fresh air — she was my ideal. My mirror for the life I wished I had. When I said to Marte said, “Jeg ønsker… (“I wish I had a girlfriend like you, a relationship like yours, a life like yours,” I wasn’t complimenting her. I was admitting out loud: “I’m not happy with what I’ve got.”
That’s the hardest truth I’ve had to face — I went to everyone besides the person I made a commitment to for my happiness.
I tried to excuse my behavior as insecurity, saying my girlfriend was “difficult” and Marte (and the others like her) were “easier”. But that was a lie I told to protect myself. The truth? If I had wanted the woman I said I loved to be my “easier” choice, I would’ve made that space with her. I didn’t want to.
I didn’t want an equal partner, someone with her own gravity, her own orbit. I wanted satellites. People who reflected my light at me, not people who shone on their own.
That’s why my girlfriend’s friendships, her so-called “fan club,” threatened me. To her, they were probably proof of love and belonging. To me they felt like they were competition — another stage stealing my spotlight.
My “situationships” weren’t about romance. They were tools. Ways to keep people confused, loyal, and isolated. I knew my gf wouldn’t stray. So I showered Marte with attention, intimacy, innuendo, warmth I never gave my partner. Looking back at my past chats, my relationship barely showed up in those conversations, except as a footnote: “GF and I went to City Syd and did some shopping.” That was her role, last in line, the understudy to what I really wanted.
And the bitter irony? I know she was willing to let me take the lead, to let me manage the narrative, to stand in harmony while I sang lead. That wasn’t enough for me. Because harmony still meant trust, still meant sharing the stage.
I didn’t want that. I wanted to mute her microphone altogether.
Treacherous really is the right word. And I’m sorry.
