In my early twenties, I developed an obsession with running. Or, more specifically, any activity such as extraordinary sex guaranteed to burn the most calories and keep me in the waif-thin condition I'd achieved through a rigorous exercise and diet regimen.

I was in a relationship that was emotionally toxic, had a job where I was merely coasting, and was profoundly unhappy. As a result, relentlessly pounding the pavement had taken on a reclusive quality. Initially, the farther I ran, the more distant my problems seemed.

At a staff lunch one afternoon, an athletic-looking man with fiery hair sat down next to me as I rearranged my salad in an attempt to appear as though I was eating it.

"I've seen you running," he interrupted as I was twirling lettuce leaves.

"You have?" I inquired, surprised that anyone would even notice me.

"Of course! You look like you're in great shape! "He chuckled. "I'm Mark, I just started here. Actually, I am a runner as well. If you ever need a jogging companion to motivate you, I would love to accompany you "he said.

Mark and I therefore laced up our sneakers daily after work and on some weekends to go for a walk along the sidewalk. We ran every possible route within a 10-mile radius of our workplace, then around some of the most popular running tracks in our city, and finally, Mark invited me back to his place, which was right next to one of the most difficult and longest running tracks, he assured me, "With beautiful views of the city."

By the time I put on my old sweatshirt and laced up my worn-out Nikes at Mark's after work on a muggy afternoon, I had become so consumed by my running obsession that I had spent weeks training on a sprained ankle, passed out twice from exhaustion, and felt like I no longer existed.

I ceased meticulously applying makeup before work in the mornings, abandoned my customary mirror checks to ensure my hair was in place, and withdrew from social interaction.

Mark had become my primary point of contact because my boyfriend was working late and long hours, which suited my need to escape the toxic energy that erupted between us when we were together.

Far from reinforcing the feeling that I was a pinball aimlessly bouncing around in a box, which was preventing me from plugging into my life, Mark encouraged me when I ran, pushing me when I thought I couldn't take another step and making me feel as though anything was possible. I began to yearn for our time together between runs, fantasizing about the freedom I felt when chasing his sneakers down the endless sidewalk.

Despite our extensive time together, I still knew very little about him. Our conversations were always centered on the next course we would run and the time we aimed for.

But something had changed as I stretched on the front steps of his apartment building before our run that afternoon. When he shuffled in on the step next to me, I felt a tingling in the back of my throat, and I noticed a calmness in his usually animated voice that I had never heard before.

"Would you like to grab a drink after this?" he inquired.

"Sure," I replied without hesitation, unsure of what to anticipate.

After our run, we sat on a couch in the back of a bar near his home and rubbed the vodka tonics we were drinking on our foreheads to cool off.

"I can't stay long. My wife will be wondering where I am when she returns home at seven o'clock "he said.

It was the first time he brought up his wife. I exhaled a breath of relief. Clearly, the strangeness I had felt between us was just pre-race jitters. Manifestly, he was in a committed relationship.

"Your running is doing you wonders! You look so conditioned! "he added.

"Hardly. I look dreadful, "I responded by dismissing him. No one had complimented me in months. I was convinced that he felt sorry for me and was attempting to help me out of compassion.

"Really? How would you rate your own appearance out of ten? "He inquired with a startled tone.

"I'm not sure... three?" I responded while observing the condensation dripping from my glass onto my shoe.

"No, you're a ten," he said abruptly as he placed his hand on my knee and forced me to look up from my glass. His eyes were intent, his pupils were large, and his face was impassive. "You know, just because someone is married doesn't mean they can't be attracted to someone else," he whispered, his cheeks turning the same shade of crimson as when we ran.

I was shivering. I smiled and took a sip of my drink, then politely changed the subject to our run, hoping he hadn't noticed that my hand was trembling so violently that the bubbles in my drink were beginning to dance and burst.

As I rolled away from my boyfriend in bed that night, creating a duvet void between us, Mark's words played on repeat in my mind like a record. My skin was tingling, my throat felt dry, and my heart was racing. No one had ever made me feel so desired and worthy of notice as he did. And it was pleasant.

Then I realized I liked Mark as much more than a running partner. And so, I told my boyfriend the truth in the early hours of the morning. I had been suffocating in our relationship for months, and I could no longer ignore it. I also told him I had feelings for someone else, and despite the fact that I knew nothing could come of them — Mark was, after all, married — it didn't feel right to stay with him while I had other commitments.

Things changed, however, when Mark asked about him while we were recovering from a run on a park bench near his apartment building, and I told him that we had broken up. Mark became more explicit about his attraction to me, sending me a text while on vacation with his wife that simply read, "I can't stop thinking about you."

It was the first time anyone had made me feel like I had the potential to be desirable.

At the end-of-year staff party, he finally asked me to go for a walk. With four glasses of wine under my belt, my diminutive frame was eminently inebriated. I set down my half-empty glass and followed Mark down the narrow, winding corridor to his office. As the rest of the staff celebrated at the opposite end of the hall, Mark seized the opportunity and stopped at the door, turning to face me with a flash of intensity in his green eyes.

"You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen," he whispered, his throat's heat brushing against my lips as he spoke.

And at that precise moment, something occurred. I was aware that Mark was married and that we shouldn't have been alone in his office, but I was curious about the desire he described having for me. What it would be like to be desired in the same way that I'd observed traditionally attractive women being desired.

I opened his office door from behind, pressing my free hand against his chest to propel him back into the room as the door closed behind us. It was my admission to Mark that I could no longer resist him. I was his if he so desired.

Mark shoved me into the door and kissed me passionately and deeply. My legs began to tremble instantly with longing. Images of what we were about to do began to flicker in my mind, like an old film coming into focus. I reached up to the first button of his shirt and then pushed him away from me in order to undo it.

As easily as the switch had flipped on within me, it then flipped off as Mark came back into focus. He was panting heavily, as if he were a young child opening his first Christmas present on Christmas morning; the excitement was nearly too much for him. As he brought his hands to my face, his eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and longing, and his hands visibly shook.

He began, "I want you to know that I'm in love with you."

"I'm sorry, but I must depart," I lied and cut him off because I didn't want to hear the words I'd felt dancing on the tip of his tongue in our most recent heated exchanges.

I knew my actions were wrong. However, that wasn't what terrified me. Mark's willingness to leave his wife if I reciprocated his feelings terrified me. Over the past few weeks, he had increased his candor about his feelings for me, always beginning to tell me he wasn't ready for marriage and was ready to walk away, but I always found a way to change the subject, not wanting to go down the path I knew he was veering toward.

I had just ended a very intense and toxic relationship, and I was not ready to commit to another person. I desired more than anything to know what it felt like to be genuinely desired and held in high regard, as Mark did.

I grabbed the doorknob and flung the door open once more. Immediately thereafter, I walked away.

I never saw Mark or heard from him again until several years later, when I happened to pass him on the street while he was pushing a baby stroller while his wife walked ahead talking on the phone, unaware of my presence.

I questioned why he remained. If he had ever told his wife the truth about what transpired between us, and if he was truly content. As a 23-year-old with deplorably low self-esteem who would've done or said anything to feel deserving of someone's attention, I don't believe the story could have unfolded in any other way.

However, I am aware that while adultery is unforgivable, sometimes not forgiving oneself is even worse. Because you can pound the pavement for miles and miles, but if you don't accept yourself completely, stumbles and all, the only person you'll be running from when you hit that winding stretch of sidewalk is yourself.

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