The Throuple | A Fairytale Story

I wrote this way back in November 2025, when I was still deep in the pain and processing of what had happened to me. Around that time, I started noticing some pretty significant patterns in my website analytics. Patterns that bothered me, fascinated me, and, if I’m being fair, were a little absurd, and very violating.

So I did what I had learned to do with most things from that chapter of my life.

I wrote about it.

At the time, I had written more than 200 pieces. Today, that number is well over 500.

This funny little ditty has been hanging out in my drafts ever since. It seemed like a good time to finally bring it out into the light.

The Throuple

A fairytale, bedtime story.

Once upon a time, in a land not too far from here,

there lived a woman whose heart was broken

in the cruelest, most unimaginable way.

The man she thought was her king

turned out to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing,

dangerous beneath the disguise,

and still so temptingly familiar.

Their end was not neat or gentle.

There were no whispered goodbyes,

no final declarations,

no “we just weren’t a good match,

and I hope he’s happy.”

No.

Their end was an atomic blast,

a detonation she never saw coming.

I can’t say the same for him,

he knew he had built a time bomb and labeled it love.

Though even he didn’t anticipate

how violently the fallout would shake him.

Life marched on.

He quickly replaced her,

rewriting history as if she’d never mattered,

gifting new diamonds and roses

like cheap replicas of the ones he’d given her.

Embracing a new dog as if that was the glue that would solidify their foundation.

Our queen, meanwhile,

sobbed and bled,

disoriented,

dizzy,

spiraling through the mindfuck

of a reality exploded.

And somewhere in that storm,

she picked up a pen.

She wrote.

Prolifically.

Furiously.

Beautifully.

She processed the man, the memories,

the love she felt,

and the life she lost.

And in doing so,

she took back her narrative.

Because she is a creator,

a powerhouse alchemist,

and before she knew it

she had built a website,

a home,

a kingdom

of 200 poems, essays, truths, and revelations.

Visitors came early.

Curious folks.

Link-clickers.

Friends and fans.

A soul whose time is not yet.

And, of course, those closer to her story.

And their friends and co-workers, because gossip travels.

The fallen king drifted through often,

unable to look away.

Not long after,

his surrogate queen arrived too,

draped in a replacement cloak,

wearing a replacement crown,

searching for evidence, reassurance,

or a reason to feel superior.

To make sure she was his only queen.

Their visits never quite coincided.

And something tells her

they don’t tell each other

the full truth

about how often they come.

A small crack in their foundation,

one neither of them

dares to admit.

Yet the visits increased over time,

more watching,

more reading,

more searching for supply or for clues.

Loss- and jealousy-driven pilgrimages

that placed her squarely

in the center of them.

And somewhere along the way,

without her consent,

she found herself cast as the third member

of a long-distance throuple.

A throuple with two people

who once made her bleed,

who now devour her words

for their own unresolved hunger.

Taking, taking, taking,

and never once asking

if she is okay,

if she wants to come over and play,

or if she even wants to be part of their story.

(For the record:

she does not.)

After much consideration,

our queen decided

to let them tussle in their own tangled kingdom

while she focused on things

far more fulfilling,

joyful,

and sovereign.

And so she lived,

finally, beautifully,

irrevocably,

happily ever after.