A Jealous, Indignant Rage

 If you’ve followed the first six chapters of the Song Bird saga, you know the story has mostly been filled with fun, excitement, and discovery. But in May of 2025, things took a turn—and for the first time, I felt the sharp edge of heartbreak.

It was a Wednesday afternoon. I had just finished a string of long, grueling meetings and called her on my drive back to the office.

Over the weekend, she had admitted that our connection was starting to feel more like boyfriend and girlfriend than casual lovers. She carried guilt about that, but I reassured her I wasn’t trying to cause issues for her family. I suggested we could balance affection and romance without letting things get out of hand—and even encouraged her to spend more time enjoying others for a while. She agreed.

Our conversation then shifted to the reasons behind certain boundaries. That’s when she used an analogy that hit me like a punch to the gut. She said something along the lines of: “If a child had its favorite toy taken away, it would be very upset. I don’t want that to happen to me. I want to keep enjoying my favorite toy.”

She was referring to me.

In that instant, my mind raced through twenty different thoughts, taking me from calm to furious in seconds.

Her words clashed with everything else I had believed about us—the impromptu phone calls whispered from her closet, the frequency of dates she desired, the confessions that I was different from her usual “extras.” I had been under the impression we were both experiencing a deep mutual attachment—that I had scratched an itch for emotional intimacy that she, like me, had been craving.

This was the first time she even hinted that I might be less than unique or special to her. I often teased her with, “So, who’s your favorite?” and sometimes she hinted that it was me. It had always felt sincere, like she was genuinely moved by our connection.

But now her analogy echoed in my head, and my walls shot up instantly. I cut the conversation short—“I’ve got to go. Talk to you later”—and then texted her, asking for limited communication and no more social media discussions. I told her I’d be exercising my freedom to see other people. I was fuming, overreacting, and running on pure emotion.

Her reply was brief: “I understand.” But later that evening, she reached out again, asking to see me the next night after a social gathering with friends.

We planned a 10 p.m. meetup, but by 10:30 p.m., with no word from her, my anxiety took over. Instead of waiting, I impulsively decided to head to a karaoke bar—partly to distract myself, partly to make the best of the night. I texted her to meet me there when she was finished.

At her gathering, she mentioned to friends that she was meeting someone for karaoke. They lit up at the idea and took her comment as an open invitation. She didn’t dissuade them. The three friends who initially planned to tag along dropped out because of a highway closure, but one remained—her plus-one.

She arrived first, flustered and anxious, yet absolutely stunning. We embraced at the bar, and I asked if she was okay. She explained how the extras had joined her, and thought maybe it would be easier for us to talk if others were around to keep each other engaged in conversation.

By the time she arrived, I’d already downed several margaritas. I was eager to hash out the previous day’s painful phone call, but I was also just happy to see her. Her very presence distracted me from the anger I’d carried since the day before. The truth is, her driving across the city to meet me was no small thing—it was an act of concern for my well-being, though in that moment I didn’t recognize it.

Then her plus-one entered. He was friendly, talkative, and quickly pulled her into conversation. Unfortunately, that left little room for her and me to speak privately. As the night went on, their banter edged toward flirtatious, and my frustration mounted. I’d come expecting to clear the air; instead, I found myself watching her attention drift elsewhere.

I tried to distract myself by singing open karaoke, but the tension only grew. It hit a peak when her friend asked her to sing Shallow with him. That was our song—the one she and I had been practicing to perform at Open Mic. Performing was something sacred between us. Watching her about to share that with him sent a jealous, indignant rage coursing through me. And when I was asked to record it? That was the breaking point.

I slammed down money for my tab and walked out without a word.

What followed was a barrage of texts, blaming her for “ruining” the night. In my fury, I hurled cruel accusations, even calling her “a black hole of affirmation need.” The things I said easily warranted silence, even rejection.

But instead of ghosting me, she called around 2 a.m. from her driveway. She asked me to calm down, to gather my thoughts, and told me we’d talk in the morning.

When morning came, she opened the space for me to speak. I told her:

“I want to give you more of me because I’ve allowed myself to feel the way I do. I want to feel secure enough to choose you and pursue you further—but right now, I don’t feel secure because the goal posts and rules keep shifting.

Your experience with ENM has given you coping skills I haven’t yet developed. I’m trying to grow because I do see you as someone special, someone I treasure.

You’ve shown patience and grace with me, and I see the effort you put in. But I need clarity. Can you please summarize what you were really trying to communicate in simple bullet points? I know it must be frustrating to repeat yourself, but I struggle to retain verbal conversations. My work life is demanding, my personal life too. When we spoke Wednesday, I’d just come out of a three-hour meeting about projects spanning the next two years. I was exhausted and stressed. I process best through writing and visuals—not just words spoken in passing. I need to be better at journaling so I can work through my emotions more effectively.”

She reassured me that our connection was, in fact, special. She reminded me that meeting me that night—driving across the city despite her exhaustion—was something she’d never done for anyone else.

I admitted how deeply jealous I’d felt watching her with her friend. She told me she had asked several times that night if I was okay, but my walls were up. I had masked my feelings until they boiled over.

She explained she had seen no signs of my distress, and that if I had simply tapped her on the shoulder and asked to speak privately, she would have gladly ended the conversation and walked out with me. “Let’s forget this ever happened,” she said.

She did add a warning, though: if a similar situation arose again, she wouldn’t entertain follow-up discussions.

I promised her I would do the work to better navigate jealousy. A few weeks later, in June, I started counseling with a Marriage and Family Therapist who specializes in Ethical Non-Monogamy.

In my first session, she recommended two books: The Ethical Slut and More Than Two. Both became starting points for deep self-reflection. Therapy gave me a mirror to see my negative coping mechanisms—and tools to replace them.

What began as a night of rage and jealousy evolved into a turning point. Her calm, patience, and mercy transformed conflict into an opportunity for growth. That act of grace moved me deeply, and in the end, it drew us closer together. For that, I am grateful.