‘Never again, Puneet,’ I whispered, before walking out.

Now, as I find myself climbing those stairs to his apartment again, my thoughts have returned to that night and the following morning. I should have been more assertive, set the boundaries in our relationship. Instead, I had avoided the conflict and accepted his excuses. I thought our relationship had been fine since that evening, that his temporary lapse in judgement had brought us closer together. This morning though, I received a text from a friend.

‘I’m sorry, Jhanvi,’ it said.

Attached was a photographic explanation of the apology. A photograph of what my friend had seen when she was out the previous night. It was blurry, but it clearly showed Puneet with another woman. The kiss could not be passed off as anything other than romantic. At that moment, I was sure my heart shattered; the pain in my chest, the tightness in my throat and the flood of tears could not mean anything other than that. And, as it shattered, my mind sprang into action, trying desperately to pick up the fragments of my heart and glue them back to what they were. I told myself this wasn’t my fault; that, although I was guarded, I had given him enough of my heart for him to break it, destroying my commitment to him.

Knocking on the door, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes to find my inner strength for the conversation that was about to take place, willing the jagged pieces of my heart to remain glued in their fragile state. I kept my eyes closed and my breath held until Puneet opened the door.

‘Jhanvi, my darling, come in. You’re looking gorgeous as always,’ he said as he leaned forward to kiss me. I turned my face, presenting my cheek to him. His lips brushed my skin and my stomach churned, thoughts of the picture preventing me from reciprocating. How could he stand there and pretend he cared even after what he had done?

‘Puneet, we have to talk,’ ’ I said curtly. The colour drained from his face. And there, at that moment, I knew it was the end for good. His expression read only of guilt for being caught, rather than the actions themselves. This conversation was going to be painful, I thought. And I was right. The conversation did not go well; he accused me of being detached and not being present in our relationship. I could not accept his explanation a second time. In the heat of the argument, it transpired that this was not the second woman he had cheated with; there had been many more. I felt sick and needed to escape. I left after collecting the few belongings I had at his house, slamming the door behind me.

I ran down the stairs, swallowing down the tears. I had no energy left to fight; this was another ruined relationship, filled with manipulation and lies. I needed to focus on my career, needed to formulate a plan to explain why yet another boyfriend was missing from my profile. I wondered whether my career was the reason nobody was able to love me, or whether I truly was as distant as they kept telling me. I don’t see myself as unlovable, I think I am capable of accepting the love of others, but somehow, they all had the same excuse. It was always me; they never took responsibility.