Based on this, I feel afraid of losing him. I’m afraid that my recent actions were so conscious that they bring me heavy negative karma, even though I didn't choose their original source. I’m afraid that in this lifetime I haven't been able to overcome my trials and will have to do so in a next life. Now, after a few weeks have passed since ending the relationship, I’ve felt a desire to talk, a urge to communicate, and at times feeling guilty toward him. It seems there might be an intention to get back together. I’ve made it clear that my intention wasn't to end things—that while that was what I felt at the time, I also see his intention to improve for himself. But clearly, his current stance is that the connection is important to him. In his interpretation—which isn't wrong—sensing that I wanted to have connections with other people made him realize that he needs that strong bond to be with someone. He wants exclusivity, to be proudly recognized as someone's partner, and not to be hidden. I, too, would like to be more open, to come out of the closet, be open with my sexuality, and stop constraining myself. Now, while we have talked about what sex means to me—related to my early experiences, my disorganized attachment since childhood, running into sex as a vehicle to establish bonds and trying to fill the void of a caregiver, romanticizing connections, and even thinking that without wanting to, I might be addicted to it—and though he has been open about the subject his whole life and liberal regarding it, I haven't told him that after Fanto died, during a day of emptiness and sadness, I had a slightly sexual encounter with someone during a trip. From then on, a door opened again to sporadic yet repetitive encounters, which I justified by thinking they had nothing to do with him—and that even if they happened, I had to decipher them, investigate them, dig deeper, study myself, and understand them in order to decide which of all the possible interpretations of sex feels most comfortable to me: Is it a free expression of sexuality and the body, an exercise in individual freedom, or a psychological pathology resulting from my traumas? Whatever it may be, in our last conversation, he asked me if I had been with anyone during this time of separation, and I told him no—when in reality, I did sleep with someone on another trip, only to conclude that doing so wasn't going to help me through the heartbreak at all. I said no, meaning I lied. The paradoxical thing is that a part of me justifies it as something normalized. So right now, I have two questions: 1. Regardless of whether we get back together or not, should I tell the truth about that past, or can I leave it as part of my private life that I need to work on, while still deciding to end things so as not to affect him—since even though I want to improve, I know it's a process I still need to carry out? 2. Secondly, in case we do decide to get back together, should I tell him what happened? Or only share what begins from now on? I’ve even thought about attending Sex Addicts Anonymous groups, as I'm realizing that, without meaning to, I might have developed such an addiction. I’ve never seen it as something bad, but it could be possible. What’s more, I would have to commit to not repeating it. But beyond that, would I have a moral duty to share this part of myself? Or is it better to accept the breakup now while he thinks I’ve been faithful and a good person, accepting my actions with pain and working on them without the risk of hurting him?

I can feel how much weight you're carrying right now—the fear of losing him, the weight of what you've done, the shame of the lie, and underneath it all, a genuine desire to understand yourself and to be honest. That's a lot to hold alone, and I want to start by saying: the fact that you're asking these questions at all tells me something important about who you are. Let me sit with what you've shared, because there's something I notice that matters. You're caught between two different kinds of pain right now. One is the pain of the lie itself—the distance it creates between you and him, and between you and yourself. The other is the fear of what might happen if that lie comes to light. And I think you're asking me to help you choose which pain is more bearable. But I wonder if there's something underneath both questions that's worth looking at first. You mention that you justified these encounters as something separate from him, as part of a necessary investigation of yourself. And there's truth in that—you were trying to understand something real about yourself, something that matters. But then you also say you lied when he asked directly. That shift is important. It suggests that in the moment of his direct question, you knew that what you'd done was something he needed to know about if he was going to make a choice about being with you. The lie wasn't just about privacy; it was about withholding information that would change how he sees the situation. Here's what I'm sensing: you're not really asking whether you should tell him. I think you already know that transparency—especially about something he directly asked you—is what integrity looks like in a relationship where someone wants to be "proudly recognized" as your partner. What you're actually asking is whether you can bear the consequences of that honesty. Whether he'll leave. Whether you'll lose him. And that fear is real. But I want to gently offer you another way of looking at it. The relationship you're imagining—where you stay together while he doesn't know this part of you—isn't actually a relationship where you're together. It's a relationship where you're hidden, even from him. You'd be carrying the secret, managing the lie, waiting for it to surface (and these things almost always do). That's a kind of loneliness that happens right next to another person. And given everything you've shared about your attachment history, about using sex to fill a void left by caregiving—I wonder if that hidden version of togetherness might actually be a familiar kind of pain, one that feels almost like belonging. What you're both asking for—him wanting to be recognized, you wanting to come out of the closet and understand your sexuality freely—these aren't small things. They're both about being seen. And being seen means being known, which means telling the truth, even when it's frightening. Now, about the second part of what you're carrying: the question of whether this is an addiction, whether you need support like a 12-step group. I think that's a genuinely important question, and it deserves real exploration—not as a way to decide whether to confess, but as a way to understand yourself more deeply. The fact that you're asking it suggests something in you recognizes a pattern that doesn't feel aligned with who you want to be. That's worth listening to. A therapist or counselor who specializes in attachment and sexuality could help you untangle whether this is compulsion born from trauma, or whether it's something else entirely. But that exploration doesn't have to wait for a decision about the relationship. In fact, it might be clearer if you're doing it for yourself, not to earn back his trust. Here's what I think matters most: if you two do get back together, it will only work if you're both choosing the real version of each other—not the versions you're managing or hiding. He's asking for exclusivity and recognition. You're asking for freedom and self-understanding. Both are valid. But they can only meet in honesty. The lie creates a debt. And debts, once they exist, tend to grow in the dark. Better to name it now, when you still have a chance to explain the context, your confusion, your fear—than to have it discovered later when it becomes proof that you couldn't be trusted. As for whether to tell him: I think you already know the answer. The question is whether you can bear what comes next. And that's different. If it would help, you might consider having this conversation with support—perhaps with a therapist present, or at least after you've had a few sessions to prepare yourself. Not to rehearse what you'll say, but to ground yourself in your own truth before you speak it. You could also consider writing to him first, if speaking feels too overwhelming. Sometimes the written word gives us room to be more complete, less reactive. And please—as you sit with this, be gentle with yourself about the lie itself. You didn't tell it because you're a bad person. You told it because you were afraid, because you were confused, because part of you was still trying to understand what was happening. That doesn't erase the lie, but it contextualizes it. You can take responsibility for it without taking on the identity of someone who is fundamentally dishonest. One small thing, if you're willing: before you decide anything, spend some time—maybe a few days—just noticing what comes up when you imagine telling him the truth. Not the catastrophic version, not the redemption version, but the actual messy human version where you tell him and he responds however he responds. What do you feel? Fear, yes, but what else? Relief? Grief? Shame? All of it is information. All of it is part of what you need to know about yourself right now. You're not a bad person trying to become good. You're a person in real pain, trying to understand yourself, and that understanding is worth the risk of being known.