Speaker 1: It was nearly eleven thirty when I finally stopped pretending
Speaker 1: to read and glanced at the clock again. I've been
Speaker 1: holding my phone for an hour, thumb hovering as if
Speaker 1: I might send Jason a text, Hey, hope you're winning,
Speaker 1: but it stayed locked cold in my hand. My back
Speaker 1: hurt from half sitting half lying on the couch, but
Speaker 1: I didn't want to go to bed yet. Somehow it
Speaker 1: felt wrong to fall asleep before he got home, though
Speaker 1: I told myself I was just waiting up to hear
Speaker 1: about his night. I pictured him head thrown back with
Speaker 1: laughter and the noise of the bar, a pint in hand,
Speaker 1: the neon Wednesday Trivia signed buzzing above the crowd, his
Speaker 1: kneaded down time. That as what he started calling it
Speaker 1: when he insisted trivia nights should be his. Our apartment
Speaker 1: was so quiet I could hear the fridge cycle. There
Speaker 1: was some distant traffic on the street, the occasional shout
Speaker 1: of drunks outside the taco place. I idly scrolled through Instagram,
Speaker 1: out of habit, my thumb, flicking images past memes, travel photos,
Speaker 1: a friend's new dog in a sweater. Then I saw
Speaker 1: someone's story a group selfie at the Green Horse, our
Speaker 1: usual crew at trivia, but I hadn't been invited in ages,
Speaker 1: not since Jason explained it was just the guise, a
Speaker 1: way to decompress. But there were women in the photo,
Speaker 1: not just girl friends tagging along, but someone I didn't recognize.
Speaker 1: And in the background, fuzzy through the bar's colored lights,
Speaker 1: was Jason at a two top, turned toward a woman
Speaker 1: with dark hair who was mid laugh at something he'd said.
Speaker 1: Jason's face was lit up, eyes crinkling, vivid in a
Speaker 1: way I hadn't seen at home for months. I couldn't
Speaker 1: stop looking at the way he was smiling, unguarded, almost goofy,
Speaker 1: a version of him that used to be ours, not
Speaker 1: something I saw from a distance in someone else's story.
Speaker 1: I tried to wave it away as a trick of
Speaker 1: the camera or a random moment. That pit in my
Speaker 1: stomach was just tiredness, the kind that comes when you
Speaker 1: stare at your phone too long. I didn't dare click
Speaker 1: her profile, just in case it registered as a view,
Speaker 1: and afterward I scrolled too fast, as though I could
Speaker 1: blur the memory. A little after midnight, keys clinked at
Speaker 1: the door. I shut my eyes, feigning a half doze.
Speaker 1: Jason's footsteps sounded lighter than usual, or maybe I was
Speaker 1: just HyperWare tabulating every sound. He looked in on me,
Speaker 1: then set his backpack down quietly and sat beside my
Speaker 1: feet on the couch. He still smelled like the city beer,
Speaker 1: old wood, something faintly floral. He leaned down and kissed
Speaker 1: me on the forehead, not the lips, like someone comforting
Speaker 1: a sibling after a hard day. Sorry, I'm late, trivia
Speaker 1: went long. His hands squeezed my ankle through the blanket,
Speaker 1: but he didn't meet my gaze. I didn't mention the photo.
Speaker 1: I didn't ask who he'd spent so long talking to,
Speaker 1: or why guy's night now had so many unfamiliar faces.
Speaker 1: I just murmured, glad you had fun, then let him
Speaker 1: disappear to the bathroom. Each of us cloaked in our
Speaker 1: separate silences. When Jason came back out, he was already
Speaker 1: scrolling his phone, dim blue light reflecting off his glasses.
Speaker 1: He kissed my cheek and headed for bed, pausing only
Speaker 1: to mumble a good night. I told myself that there
Speaker 1: were a hundred good reasons for that smile, that unfamiliar
Speaker 1: woman for the vague sense that the edges of my
Speaker 1: world had shifted while I wasn't looking. I told myself
Speaker 1: I was being dramatic. Then lay awake for a long time,
Speaker 1: listening to water drips slowly in the pipes and wondering
Speaker 1: why my own home suddenly felt borrowed. It's not like
Speaker 1: I ever believed we were immune to boredom or routine.
Speaker 1: When I think of how we started, it's still there,
Speaker 1: the passionate, improbable rush of it all. I met Jason
Speaker 1: at one of those roof top parties where you know
Speaker 1: no one except the friend who drags you because everyone's going.
Speaker 1: I nearly left after the first hour. I was making
Speaker 1: awkward conversation near the cheese board when he offered me
Speaker 1: a drink and made some dry joke about free emergencies.
Speaker 1: He'd moved to the city only a year before, still
Speaker 1: clinging to a battered tote bag from his last job
Speaker 1: in Boston. Unuronically enthusiastic about the subway. We clicked immediately
Speaker 1: over music. He bet me I couldn't name the artist
Speaker 1: playing through the bartender's bluetooth speaker, and I told him
Speaker 1: I could. But the real trick was getting it to
Speaker 1: play something less derivative. He hadn't heard that word used
Speaker 1: in earnest. We wandered out to the balcony to compare playlists,
Speaker 1: then didn't move for hours. I always remembered that he listened,
Speaker 1: actually listened, not just waiting for his turn to speak.
Speaker 1: By the end of the night, he slipped me his
Speaker 1: number on a napkin, wrote for the playlist, not the cheese.
Speaker 1: He was confident in a way that didn't feel arrogant,
Speaker 1: just grounded. I loved that, the way he could diffuse
Speaker 1: tension with a look, the way he told stories at parties,
Speaker 1: his ability to make everyone, even my prickly cousin Joe,
Speaker 1: feel seen. When we started dating, it was just easy.
Speaker 1: I'd worked my way up in marketing and was always
Speaker 1: the pragmatic planner. But when Jason suggested a one a
Speaker 1: m walk or buying trained tickets to see a band
Speaker 1: on a whim, I'd do it. We mixed friend groups
Speaker 1: through dinner parties in our tiny first apartment, stayed out
Speaker 1: too late on Thursdays just because we could. Both of
Speaker 1: us had ambitions. Jason was always chasing a promotion, first
Speaker 1: in engineering and then consulting. I could rely on him
Speaker 1: to run spreadsheets, swearing at Excel under his breath while
Speaker 1: I worried over word choices for presentations. When we moved
Speaker 1: to this new loft, a real sunlit place instead of
Speaker 1: the shoe box apartment with the broken windows, it felt
Speaker 1: like proof we were doing something right. We hosted our
Speaker 1: friends for cozy sundays, splurged on a new couch, let
Speaker 1: ourselves dream a little bigger. Our feed was full of
Speaker 1: city hikes, impulsive road trips, absurd local festivals where we
Speaker 1: made up team names and lost anyway. In the last
Speaker 1: eight months, things shifted. Jason's job got intense, his phone
Speaker 1: glued to his hand at dinner. I started covering for
Speaker 1: him when he ghosted on plans, blaming quarterly reviews or
Speaker 1: the impossible client. Fewer inside jokes, more Netflix shows paused
Speaker 1: because one of us was answering email. We still had sex,
Speaker 1: sometimes out of habit, sometimes to try and recapture something,
Speaker 1: but the frequency in those stolen moments sparks faded behind
Speaker 1: the constant churn of just keeping up. He started trivia
Speaker 1: nights in our second year together, away to see friends
Speaker 1: play at being competitive. Gripe about the week I'd loved going,
Speaker 1: even if I was useless at history categories and only
Speaker 1: showed off during music rounds. But then, somewhere, just after
Speaker 1: his thirty fourth birthday, Jason said he needed something that
Speaker 1: was just his, that trivia was a pressure valve, not
Speaker 1: a date night. I laughed, pretending I didn't hear the
Speaker 1: edge in his voice, said it sounded healthy. He told
Speaker 1: me to use those nights for self care book club. Meantime,
Speaker 1: I joked, I didn't know what that looked like any more.
Speaker 1: He only half smiled For a while. I chalked it
Speaker 1: up to growing pains. We were both tired, working hard,
Speaker 1: settling into some image of what adults in their thirties
Speaker 1: were supposed to look like. I didn't want to be
Speaker 1: jealous or needy. I told myself that real trust meant
Speaker 1: not second guessing every shift in mood, that couples survived
Speaker 1: by respecting each other's space. But even then, part of
Speaker 1: me noticed the way he stopped asking about my projects,
Speaker 1: how he'd withdraw when I wanted to talk about our
Speaker 1: next trip, how he claimed exhaustion after dinner, disappearing into
Speaker 1: podcasts and sports recaps. It's hard to put a time
Speaker 1: lene on how doubt creeps in. It's more a series
Speaker 1: of moments that stick, like the crumpled receipt I found
Speaker 1: in his jacket, the one he'd tossed over the armrest,
Speaker 1: after dropping his work bag on the floor. I was
Speaker 1: picking up laundry, one of those dumb, annoying habits I
Speaker 1: could recite in my sleep, gathering his stuff into the
Speaker 1: mound i'd later deposit by our bed. When I saw
Speaker 1: the strip of paper from Lo Fi Wine, it didn't
Speaker 1: register at first, but then I glanced at the date,
Speaker 1: a Thursday night trivia night. It listed a sixty eight
Speaker 1: dollars bottle, something we never splurged on unless friends were over,
Speaker 1: and usually then as a joke. There hadn't been any
Speaker 1: new bottle at home. In fact, we'd half emptied a
Speaker 1: box of pino the next evening. While half watching the
Speaker 1: Wire reruns, I tried to recall if Jason had mentioned
Speaker 1: an office gift, or maybe a bar tab that got
Speaker 1: out of hand. I scrolled through our group chat for
Speaker 1: the Green Horse to see if anyone had joked about
Speaker 1: fancy wine, but the only mention was a blurry shot
Speaker 1: of a half empty bottle behind the bar in some
Speaker 1: one's background. I left the receipt in the side pocket,
Speaker 1: not sure why, then felt foolish for not just asking.
Speaker 1: Later that week, I overheard Jason on it. He was
Speaker 1: in the kitchen pacing in socks, voice hushed. As soon
Speaker 1: as I stepped in to refill my glass. He stopped
Speaker 1: mid sentence, turned away, and muttered, no, no, it's fine,
Speaker 1: I'll ping you from work. Got a run. When I
Speaker 1: asked who it was, he said, work, check in God, Sorry,
Speaker 1: it's always something lately, then flashed a tight smile and
Speaker 1: started clearing plates. Elbows Jittery, I tried to tell myself
Speaker 1: I was reading into it, but nerves hummed in my
Speaker 1: own chest all evening. Maybe it was innocent, a bonus
Speaker 1: for someone, a birthday gift for the trivia host, or
Speaker 1: some office trivia pool. Maybe I thought he was planning
Speaker 1: a surprise and I was ruining it with my jumpy
Speaker 1: questions and lack of trust. I replayed the conversation, each
Speaker 1: word in my head like a puzzle piece that refused
Speaker 1: to fit. The chasm between us grew quietly. I didn't
Speaker 1: mention the photo or the receipt. Instead, I compensated in
Speaker 1: the only way I knew offering to cook dinner, suggest
Speaker 1: movie nights, leaving notes in his work bag. He responded
Speaker 1: with a distracted warmth, quick pecks on the cheek, a
Speaker 1: hand on my shoulder as he raced to yet another meeting. Eventually,
Speaker 1: the weight got too heavy to ignore. I asked Liz,
Speaker 1: who'd known us both since college, how trivia was going.
Speaker 1: She hesitated before answering, her voice shifting on the phone.
Speaker 1: He's been in his own world, she said, Honestly, I
Speaker 1: barely see him when I go, like he's there, but
Speaker 1: not there, you know, she quickly added, not in a
Speaker 1: bad way, just you know, maybe he's tired. Long week.
Speaker 1: It was careful the way she said it, as if
Speaker 1: she knew there was more beneath, but wasn't sure how
Speaker 1: much she was supposed to share. Mark was less cautious
Speaker 1: when I caught him at a cafe. Honestly, Jason's missed
Speaker 1: a few rounds, shows up late, sometimes leaves before we
Speaker 1: even finish, he says, works nuts, but he usually splits
Speaker 1: before we get more drinks. You sure he's all right,
Speaker 1: I smiled, gave some canned answer, but it clicked in
Speaker 1: my head. Jason had always talked about post trivia hangs
Speaker 1: how he needed to catch up with friends after the quiz,
Speaker 1: but now he was there alone, dipping in and out.
Speaker 1: The next logical step, though it made me feel gross,
Speaker 1: was checking our online statements, our joint card, where he
Speaker 1: charged everything from groceries to euba rides. I told myself
Speaker 1: it was just to see where he was eating, or
Speaker 1: if he was splurging on dinners by himself. That was
Speaker 1: the excuse I needed. Scrolling through the pattern, jumped out
Speaker 1: every trivia night a ride to the Green Horse, but
Speaker 1: never returned from there. Instead, the drop off was listed
Speaker 1: at and addressed ten blocks north, not on our regular circuit.
Speaker 1: A wine bar, once, a bakery after midnight, a strange
Speaker 1: park in the West End. Sometimes the ride stopped at
Speaker 1: a street I didn't recognize. The charges weren't outrageous dollar
Speaker 1: fourteen here, nine dollars there, But the destinations weren't the bar,
Speaker 1: weren't home, weren't anywhere I knew him to go. I
Speaker 1: brought it up half joking as I slid my laptop,
Speaker 1: clothes us you taking the scenic route home. Lately, I
Speaker 1: keep seeing you, but charges to weird places, new hangouts.
Speaker 1: I tried to make my voice casual, but Jason stilled
Speaker 1: fork half way to his mouth. Work espen brutal. Sometimes
Speaker 1: I drop by a coffee shop if I work late,
Speaker 1: or I need to clear my head before coming home.
Speaker 1: It's boring but true. What are you checking up on me?
Speaker 1: He laughed, But it wasn't real. I tried to match
Speaker 1: his tone, waving it off, just nosy accountant stuff. His
Speaker 1: smile lingered only until his phone buzzed after he left
Speaker 1: for work. My curiosity spiked. I scoured the Green Horse's Instagram,
Speaker 1: flipping through trivia night posts. There was Jason at the
Speaker 1: end of the bar, hunched over answer sheets, drink in hand,
Speaker 1: not alone, always with the same woman from the earlier story,
Speaker 1: seated together, once sharing ear buds, another time, heads bent
Speaker 1: together over a phone. Sometimes she was tagged, sometimes not.
Speaker 1: Her name when it appeared was just Ray or Rachel.
Speaker 1: Always in other people captions. Jason never mentioned her, never
Speaker 1: told stories about her the way he did about other friends.
Speaker 1: The familiar ache started creeping in the one that bubbles
Speaker 1: below logic. Was he confiding in her talking about work?
Speaker 1: About me? Every one said men just needed space that
Speaker 1: you shouldn't snoop or crowd but I didn't know how
Speaker 1: to do nothing. I brought it up to Tara, my
Speaker 1: oldest friend, over gin and tonics in a small living room. Tara,
Speaker 1: always blunt, raised an eyebrow. Couldn't he just be making
Speaker 1: new friends? She said, you said yourself, you drifted on trivia.
Speaker 1: Maybe you've both got new routines. Don't borrow trouble. I nodded,
Speaker 1: embarrassed by my own suspicions, but the facts festered. By
Speaker 1: the next Thursday, I couldn't take it. Made up my
Speaker 1: mind to see for myself what he was like when
Speaker 1: I wasn't there. I texted him midday, might swing by
Speaker 1: just for the music round, trying to sound breezy. He replied,
Speaker 1: long day, might just keep it low key if you want,
Speaker 1: but don't feel obligated. Maybe was nothing, but the words
Speaker 1: read as if he was bracing himself. I walked into
Speaker 1: the Green Horse alone, stomach churning. The place was familiar,
Speaker 1: sticky flaws, laughter, the pinball machines, endless beeping, but I
Speaker 1: felt out of place for the first time in years.
Speaker 1: Jason saw me near the door, and his face froze
Speaker 1: for a second before stretching into a smile. He made
Speaker 1: his way over, arms crossed casually, but his movements seemed
Speaker 1: tight rehearsed. Hey didn't expect you, he said, quick, squeezing
Speaker 1: my shoulder and introducing me to few faces around. When
Speaker 1: I asked about the rest of the group, he deflected,
Speaker 1: like crowd to night, we might bail early. The woman
Speaker 1: from the photos Rachel, I guessed, was at the bar
Speaker 1: scrolling her phone. Jason didn't introduce us. When our eyes
Speaker 1: met briefly, she smiled, polite but distant, then turned away.
Speaker 1: For the first hour, Jason fidgeted through the rounds, checking
Speaker 1: his phone, glancing at the door, pulling away. When I
Speaker 1: leaned in to whisper and answer, I excused myself before
Speaker 1: the last set, inventing a work call I needed to
Speaker 1: prepare for tomorrow. Jason only half protested, then ducked out
Speaker 1: to talk to the bartender after I left. As I
Speaker 1: walked home, my cheeks burned with the shame of overstepping,
Speaker 1: of appearing, clinging, of wanting too much. But beneath it all,
Speaker 1: something cold and harder blossomed, an instinct I'd learned to mistrust,
Speaker 1: the certainty that there was something I was missing. I
Speaker 1: didn't sleep much that night. Instead, I replayed every detail,
Speaker 1: the receipt, the photos, the weird euber drop offs, the
Speaker 1: flashes of affection that now felt wantingly rare. I checked
Speaker 1: Rachel's social media, but her profiles were private. Her posts
Speaker 1: were mostly group shots at various local events, always with
Speaker 1: hashtags for night life, but nothing overt, no obvious links
Speaker 1: to Jason save for the trivia posts. Most nights, I
Speaker 1: drove myself nuts rereading banal texts from Jason about work,
Speaker 1: stress catching myself, imagining inflection and hidden meanings. A few
Speaker 1: days later, Jason came home with flowers, purple tulips, the
Speaker 1: kind he used to buy in our first spring together.
Speaker 1: He looked sheepish as he set them on the table.
Speaker 1: You've been putting up with a lot lately. Work espen
Speaker 1: a black hole. I'm sorry, I've checked out. I feel
Speaker 1: like I haven't been here. He cupped my cheek, eyes apologetic.
Speaker 1: I booked us a weeknd away at the lake House,
Speaker 1: no phones, just us. We need a reset, right, He grinned,
Speaker 1: the kind that still made me weak, and I let
Speaker 1: myself give in to the relief, burying my face in
Speaker 1: his shoulder. The trip was everything it should have been
Speaker 1: quiet mornings with coffee on the deck, hiking in the wet,
Speaker 1: green air, sharing stories late into the night, the way
Speaker 1: we used to. Jason was attentive, hands lingering on my back,
Speaker 1: asking questions, laughing at my bad jokes. The second evening,
Speaker 1: he produced a bottle of wine, expensive, identical to the
Speaker 1: receipt i'd found. Figured we deserved something nice, he said,
Speaker 1: pouring us both glasses. We toasted to second chances, to
Speaker 1: choosing each other again. For a little while, I let
Speaker 1: myself believe, silencing the voice that warned me everything was
Speaker 1: too neatly timed. After we got home, the magic lasted
Speaker 1: a few days. Jason sent texts during the day, left
Speaker 1: post its in the kitchen with puns about excellent mornings.
Speaker 1: We curled up together on the couch, ordered take out
Speaker 1: for once instead of meal, prepping the return of intimacy. However,
Speaker 1: brief lulled me into thinking I had overreacted, that my
Speaker 1: doubt was just the product of stress and over analysis. Then,
Speaker 1: on a random Tuesday, I found a text while helping
Speaker 1: Jason search for a client number on his phone. It
Speaker 1: popped open in a thread labeled Mike work, but the
Speaker 1: message was unmistakably not about work. Last night was amazing,
Speaker 1: Counting the days until next week? Zoxo. My face went cold.
Speaker 1: There were earlier texts, some mundane but sprinkled with inside
Speaker 1: jokes and emoji, none of which matched any Mike I'd met.
Speaker 1: I scrolled back, reading benign logistics that trailed off into
Speaker 1: a string of late night missives, flirtations, then lists, miss you,
Speaker 1: you looked so good in blue, don't forget Friday. I
Speaker 1: dropped the phone like it burned, my mind spun. Was
Speaker 1: it a work joke? Was Mike an inside code for
Speaker 1: someone else, a friend with an unfortunate texting style? The
Speaker 1: contact icon was plain, the number not one, I recognized
Speaker 1: reason ward with dread. I put the phone down and
Speaker 1: went to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face,
Speaker 1: willing myself to calm down. When Jason wandered in a
Speaker 1: moment later, he seemed normal, humming, folding an errant towel,
Speaker 1: asking if I wanted tie or sushi for dinner. I
Speaker 1: could barely answer, stomach twisted in a knot. I called Tara,
Speaker 1: hands shaking, reading her the message, as if the mere
Speaker 1: act of saying it aloud might make it make sense.
Speaker 1: There was a long silence. Whose Mike, She finally asked,
Speaker 1: But it didn't sound like a real question. There was
Speaker 1: no clean way to confront Jason yet, not when all
Speaker 1: I had was a gnawing chain of inconsistencies and a
Speaker 1: single message that might be cleverly explained. Still, I felt
Speaker 1: the foundation of my life tilting. I went back through
Speaker 1: old trivia photos, searching for signs, for the way his
Speaker 1: hand rested on the small of Rachel's back, for their
Speaker 1: matching smiles at inside jokes I'd never heard. I spent
Speaker 1: one night on the couch, unable to bear Jason's warmth
Speaker 1: pressed against my back, making excuses about needing to finish
Speaker 1: up a project for work. My dreams were restless, filled
Speaker 1: with echoing trivia questions and the image of some one
Speaker 1: else laughing at stories I used to know by heart.
Speaker 1: With Tara's help, I dug into the puzzle of the
Speaker 1: woman from trivia, Rachel, watching her tagged social posts for clues,
Speaker 1: piecing together time lens with maddening slowness. Tara, savvy in
Speaker 1: the small world networking of our city, soon texted her
Speaker 1: full name is Rachel Levin. She just moved into the
Speaker 1: Wilcoe Lofts shows up in tons of local groups. Recently
Speaker 1: divorced super active online, but lockdown photographs surfaced Rachel at
Speaker 1: book club, at happy hour, at trivia. Jason always managed
Speaker 1: to stay out of frame, except for those random fleeting
Speaker 1: glimpses in someone else's group shot. One afternoon, I noticed
Speaker 1: Jason's messenger bag slumped by the door, gaping open. I
Speaker 1: heard the shower running, and on a wild heart tracing impulse,
Speaker 1: reached in and found a thin black phone wedged in
Speaker 1: the side pocket, unfamiliar, a cheap Android, not his regular iPhone.
Speaker 1: Guts screaming, I unlocked it with the same code he
Speaker 1: used for everything, Nash twelve, our old cat's name. At first,
Speaker 1: there was only a string of calendar reminders for meetings.
Speaker 1: Then I found a messaging app Long Threads with Rachel
Speaker 1: not hidden but never named, filled with timing confessions and
Speaker 1: a digital scent of tenderness I hadn't felt from Jason
Speaker 1: in months. I didn't open everything I couldn't bear to,
Speaker 1: but there was enough. Wish we could have stayed for
Speaker 1: one more drink. That song always reminds me of you
Speaker 1: don't forget the wine, And there a photo he'd taken
Speaker 1: of them across the table, a half drained glass, her
Speaker 1: hand tangled around his wrist. I put the phone back,
Speaker 1: careful to erase any sign i'd seen it. When Jason emerged,
Speaker 1: fresh and oblivious, wet hair curling around his ears, I
Speaker 1: nodded to his bag, you left your phone in there.
Speaker 1: He barely registered it, scooping the device up with forced
Speaker 1: nonchalance and tucking it out of sight. I reached the
Speaker 1: point where reality fractured from routine. I began to observe
Speaker 1: my own life as if I were a stranger, noting
Speaker 1: every misplaced glance, every vanished touch, every gap in our conversations,
Speaker 1: as if adding it to an inventory of proof. That
Speaker 1: week I called in sick on Thursday was a gray,
Speaker 1: drizzly day, the air pressed in heavy through the windows.
Speaker 1: I waited until dusk, then left Tara a message cover
Speaker 1: for me if I'm late, and walked to the Green
Speaker 1: Horse just after trivia would start. The place was lively,
Speaker 1: crowd thick, the buzz of voices masking my nerves. I
Speaker 1: found a seat at the far end of the bar,
Speaker 1: half hidden by a pillar, and ordered a single whiskey
Speaker 1: to nurse it. Wasn't long before I saw them, Jason
Speaker 1: and Rachel arriving together, not arm in arm, but moving
Speaker 1: in step, as if they had already done this routine
Speaker 1: a dozen times. They slid onto stools at the far end,
Speaker 1: isolated from the group I once counted as friends. Jason
Speaker 1: touched her hand beneath the bar, their heads drawing together
Speaker 1: over the quiz sheet, faces grinning in profil. When Rachel
Speaker 1: got up to grab drinks, Jason watched her with a
Speaker 1: kind of wistfulness, as if their time together was both
Speaker 1: forbidden and ordinary. Now I turned away quickly, afraid of
Speaker 1: being recognized. The bartender eyed me with curiosity, but I
Speaker 1: kept my face buried in my glass, heart slamming in
Speaker 1: my chest. I left after the first half, my head
Speaker 1: foggy feet, stumbling on unfamiliar curb stones. I barely noticed
Speaker 1: the cold, too numb to feel much of anything but
Speaker 1: the pounding certainty. Jason's entire new self was unfolding out
Speaker 1: of view, built inside the shell of spaces that once
Speaker 1: belonged only to us. All that evening, I hovered between
Speaker 1: two contradictory impulses, the urge to confront him, to demand
Speaker 1: an explanation, and the need to see if there was
Speaker 1: yet more I didn't know. Each memory replayed sharper in
Speaker 1: the new light. His laughter at the bar, the conversations
Speaker 1: cut short at home, the wine that appeared and vanished,
Speaker 1: the brief touch of another woman's hand on his arm.
Speaker 1: I reached for my phone, thumb hovering over the icon
Speaker 1: for the group chat. But I couldn't make myself post anything,
Speaker 1: couldn't signal to the world how thoroughly my trust had rotted.
Speaker 1: Back home and greeted me the old way, squeezing my
Speaker 1: hand and asking about my day. But there was a distance,
Speaker 1: a carefulness in his movements, like a man performing a
Speaker 1: part he no longer enjoyed. I watched him eat, watched
Speaker 1: his eyes dart to his phone, and wondered how long
Speaker 1: he'd been waiting for me to stop looking. I emptied
Speaker 1: our dishwasher in the dull light of morning, stacking cups
Speaker 1: and bowls as quietly as possible so I wouldn't wake Jason.
Speaker 1: I felt almost furtive in my own kitchen, every small
Speaker 1: action colored by the memory of last night. My brain
Speaker 1: pinged between indignation. How dare he carry on right in
Speaker 1: front of me? An a gnawing sense of shame, the
Speaker 1: feeling that maybe if I'd been more fun lately, more attentive,
Speaker 1: we'd still be laughing through music rounds together at trivia,
Speaker 1: instead of sitting in different corners of our own lives.
Speaker 1: When he finally wandered in, sleepy eyed and rumpled, he
Speaker 1: yawned his way to the French Press, muttering about a
Speaker 1: call he had to join before nine a m. I
Speaker 1: found myself watching him for signs. Was he thinking of her?
Speaker 1: Were those text messages a secret under his finger tips?
Speaker 1: Just out of my sight? I asked, as neutrally as
Speaker 1: I could. Did you eat at the bar yesterday? Or
Speaker 1: just drinks? He looked up, pouring coffee with more force
Speaker 1: than usual. Just drinks. I grabbed a burrito after on
Speaker 1: the way home. Why he glanced at me over the
Speaker 1: rim of his mug, eyebrows raised, but not quite making
Speaker 1: it to sincere curiosity. I shrugged, just wondering what people
Speaker 1: do after trivia now. Liz said, the group doesn't always
Speaker 1: go out after I let his reaction hang in the air.
Speaker 1: He set the mug down. It varies. She usually bounces
Speaker 1: early anyway, I don't always feel up for it. Sometimes
Speaker 1: I just want to walk or something. Then, with a
Speaker 1: studded casualness, why are you planning on coming again? I
Speaker 1: forced a smile and said maybe I should. I'm not
Speaker 1: hopeless at science rounds my voice sound and did smaller
Speaker 1: than I wanted. His eyes darted to his phone. The
Speaker 1: rest of the morning played out like that, a quiet
Speaker 1: layering of suspicion and awkward pleasantries. I worked from the
Speaker 1: kitchen table, making my way through emils, occasionally glancing at
Speaker 1: the faded tulips he'd brought home. There was a smudge
Speaker 1: of wine on the table from our lake house trip,
Speaker 1: a dark spot on the unfinished wood. I left it, uncleaned,
Speaker 1: unsure if it was a wound or a memory to hold.
Speaker 1: By noon, I couldn't concentrate. I texted Tara. Can we
Speaker 1: walk later? She responded almost immediately Coffee at three? Name
Speaker 1: the place? I chose a spot equidistant from our lofts,
Speaker 1: A small cafe near the river, mostly empty on weekday afternoons.
Speaker 1: We met outside, both of us bundled in jackets against
Speaker 1: the chilly wind. Tara took one look at me, linked
Speaker 1: her arm through mine, and said, tell me everything, don't edit.
Speaker 1: I started slow, giving her the tangled play play of
Speaker 1: Trivia Nights receipts, the Weird Eber Rides, the Mysterious Mike.
Speaker 1: I heard my voice pitching between rational and frantic. Tara listened,
Speaker 1: you're working, then interrupted, you don't want to be that
Speaker 1: person erin, but you're not inventing this. This is messed up,
Speaker 1: even if nothing physical happened, which, sorry, I doubt you
Speaker 1: deserve to know who Rachel is. To him, She looked
Speaker 1: at me squarely. Do you want me to come with
Speaker 1: you to trivia next week? We can make it less weird.
Speaker 1: It was comforting and terrifying at once. No, I'll just
Speaker 1: look like I'm stalking him. Who cares how you look.
Speaker 1: He's the one acting shady. I smiled at that, a
Speaker 1: thin slice of relief. We walked awhile longer, Tara keeping
Speaker 1: up a patter about work in her latest terrible online date.
Speaker 1: Before I left, she squeezed my shoulder and said, you're
Speaker 1: not crazy. Promise Back inside the apartment later, I busied
Speaker 1: myself making dinner, something hearty, something that would fill the
Speaker 1: Jason texted to say he be late. Sprint review ran
Speaker 1: long be home soon. I stood over the stove boiling
Speaker 1: noodles and caught myself chopping vegetables with unnecessary force. He
Speaker 1: arrived almost an hour later, coat spattered with drizzle, hair
Speaker 1: stuck to his forehead. He apologized for missing dinner, pulling
Speaker 1: me close for a brief, distracted hug. Rough day, I asked,
Speaker 1: trying for affectionate. Yeah, just a brutal sprint. I have
Speaker 1: to log on for a late call. He kissed my
Speaker 1: cheek and disappeared into the office before I could frame
Speaker 1: another question. I stared at the closed office door, hearing
Speaker 1: the muffled hum of his voice, now warm, then clipped.
Speaker 1: I set a plate aside for him, absently scrolling social media,
Speaker 1: my phone buzzed Liz with a photo from Trivia last spring.
Speaker 1: She captioned it, Remember when we ruled at pop Culture.
Speaker 1: There we were me, Jason, Mark, the old crew crammed
Speaker 1: around a table, clutching beers and scribbling answers. I found
Speaker 1: myself tearing up. We used to be a wee, not
Speaker 1: two halves crossing in the night. Dinner grew cold. Jason's
Speaker 1: surfaced only after ten plaits his own meal in silence.
Speaker 1: I sat with him, but we didn't find a rhythm.
Speaker 1: Each of us, volleying bland phrases about work and groceries.
Speaker 1: At one point I watched him react to a text,
Speaker 1: His face lit momentarily with a secret smile, before he
Speaker 1: caught himself and asked me about my next campaign launch.
Speaker 1: I went to bed before him that night, pulling the
Speaker 1: covers up around my chin, listening to the electric whir
Speaker 1: of the city through our cracked window. I thought about
Speaker 1: how the shape of loneliness changes. It isn't a howling
Speaker 1: absence so much as the clutter of small, ordinary gaps
Speaker 1: no one else can see but you. The next week,
Speaker 1: I made a promise to myself one more direct attempt.
Speaker 1: No games, no tiptoeing. That Thursday, after watching Clouds all afternoon,
Speaker 1: I texted Jason trivia and dinner after let's make a
Speaker 1: date of it. His reply was nearly instant, can't tonight.
Speaker 1: Already made plans with Mark to catch up and maybe
Speaker 1: hit darts after. Let's do Friday, though you pick. The
Speaker 1: message was punctuated with a thumbs up emoji no heart.
Speaker 1: I texted Mark, are you out with Jason tonight? He
Speaker 1: replied twenty minutes later, no, working late, haven't seen him
Speaker 1: this week? Tell him Hi. Even seeing the words on
Speaker 1: the screen made me nauseous. I called Liz, Hey, do
Speaker 1: you know if Jason's going to trivia tonight? Her answer
Speaker 1: was slow, careful think, so he RSVP'd on the group chat,
Speaker 1: you joining us? I lied, maybe next time. Just wanted
Speaker 1: to see who's going have fun. I paced the living room,
Speaker 1: phone in hand, the need to know, fort with the
Speaker 1: urge to run from whatever truth hovered just out of reach. Finally,
Speaker 1: I put on my coat and set out for the
Speaker 1: Green Horse alone again. The bar was dim, packed, every
Speaker 1: surface sticky with spilled drinks and the hum of a crowd.
Speaker 1: I spotted Jason at the far end, back turned deep
Speaker 1: in conversation with Rachel. They were sharing a plate of fries,
Speaker 1: two heads bent close. I watched as he wiped a
Speaker 1: fleck of salt from her cheek, playful, a gesture too
Speaker 1: private for acquaintances. Rachel laughed, tucking her hair behind her ear,
Speaker 1: her gaze soft on him. My chest squeezed. I stood frozen,
Speaker 1: unable to approach. Suddenly aware of how visible I'd be
Speaker 1: as the outsider now, I slipped out before anyone saw me.
Speaker 1: Walked the long way home, wind stinging my face. At home,
Speaker 1: I went straight to our bedroom and crawled under the covers.
Speaker 1: Fully dressed. Jason came in after midnight, humming with real happiness,
Speaker 1: as if the knight had revived him. The disconnect could
Speaker 1: not have been sharper. He sat on the edge of
Speaker 1: the bed, pulling off his shoes. You asleep, he whispered.
Speaker 1: I feigned a non committal grunt. Long night, he said, soft,
Speaker 1: I'll be better company to morrow. His hand hovered uncertain
Speaker 1: above my shoulder, then retreated. I lay tense and still
Speaker 1: until I heard him in the shower, the rush of
Speaker 1: water masking his private muttering. The next morning, I stared
Speaker 1: at myself in the bathroom mirror. My skin was pale,
Speaker 1: ringed at the eyes, my mouth set in a hard line.
Speaker 1: I wondered who I was becoming. I'd always prided myself
Speaker 1: on being the even keeled one, the calm in a storm.
Speaker 1: But now I was someone who timed my husband's eber rides,
Speaker 1: someone who flinched at his laughter. That afternoon, at work,
Speaker 1: I couldn't focus. My boss called me in for a
Speaker 1: status meeting, and I fumbled through fake enthusiasm about engagement metrics,
Speaker 1: then returned to my desk and snapped at a team mate.
Speaker 1: At lunch, I scrolled through Instagram, searching for Rachel's last name, Levin,
Speaker 1: combing a tagged photos for overlap, with Jason checking every
Speaker 1: mutual connection. Tara was the only friend I trusted enough
Speaker 1: to confed in, and she texted back after my agitated update,
Speaker 1: we can figure this out. Want me to dig around
Speaker 1: a bit. I realized I was hoping to find nothing,
Speaker 1: just a clean explanation, something obvious I'd missed. That hope
Speaker 1: faded as Tara sent a screen shot two hours later.
Speaker 1: Rachel's apartment number recently moved into the Wilcoe Lofts, just
Speaker 1: three blocks from the Green Horse. Tara's comment, She's not
Speaker 1: hiding anything. She's all over these neighborhood groups. Divorced last year,
Speaker 1: no kids, not much else public. That night, Jason suggested
Speaker 1: we order tie and watch a movie. I tried to
Speaker 1: act normal, making jokes about his spice tolerance, curling up
Speaker 1: close on the couch. He relaxed briefly, even nuzzling into
Speaker 1: me as we watched, but when his phone buzzed midway
Speaker 1: through the film, and he excused himself, murmuring about late
Speaker 1: e mails from Singapore. The mood was shattered. I followed
Speaker 1: him after a minute, listening through the thin home office door.
Speaker 1: His tone was soft, apologetic, the voice he used only
Speaker 1: for friends he genuinely cared about. NA, it's fine, I'll
Speaker 1: see you then, miss you too. Can't wait. I backed away,
Speaker 1: pulse pounding. He returned later, holding his phone to his chest,
Speaker 1: smiling absently. I ate my noodles in silence, barely tasting them,
Speaker 1: when he glanced up and noticed he reached across the table. Hey,
Speaker 1: talk to me. Feels like we haven't connected lately. His
Speaker 1: voice was gentle enough for me to want to surrender.
Speaker 1: But memories of Rachel's hand on his cheek, the text
Speaker 1: from Mike the clandestine meetings broke me out of it.
Speaker 1: I don't know, I said, just been tired, I guess.
Speaker 1: He tilted his head, studying me. Is it us? The
Speaker 1: question startled me, spoken like a dare it's work? Stress?
Speaker 1: I lied, and the moment slipped away. He nodded, as
Speaker 1: if the subject was too big to approach, and started
Speaker 1: clearing plaits wordlessly. Later, I searched the kitchen for the
Speaker 1: bottle of wine he'd bought. It was gone from the cupboard,
Speaker 1: no empty in the recycling. Overwhelmed, I started a list
Speaker 1: in the notes app on my phone. March thirteen, Trivia
Speaker 1: w Rachel Uber ride ends at west End Park. March
Speaker 1: twenty seven, Mike text trivia late night, phone off at home.
Speaker 1: April three, Rachel hand on Jason's wrist, Trivia not with group.
Speaker 1: It read like a ledger of betrayal, but seeing it
Speaker 1: in writing steadied me. If I was losing my mind,
Speaker 1: at least I could prove it wasn't just one off paranoia.
Speaker 1: The next Friday, Jason left his messenger bag open again
Speaker 1: and the second phone, the android, was visible. I waited
Speaker 1: until he was on the balcony with a bier, then
Speaker 1: sat on the bedroom floor, scrolling through without guilt. There
Speaker 1: were more messages, plans for trivia, secret spots, a note
Speaker 1: about sharing our playlist, a photo of Jason shirt rumpled,
Speaker 1: grinning over take out containers, and a board game I
Speaker 1: didn't recognize at race Chel's apartment, presumably my vision swam.
Speaker 1: I scrolled through months of threads, emotional confessions, in jokes,
Speaker 1: and several sign offs with counting down. Glad I met
Speaker 1: you made my weak. The intimacy of it was devastating.
Speaker 1: I started to shake, but kept going, driven by the
Speaker 1: impulse to rip away the last shreds of hope. In
Speaker 1: the drafts folder of the chat app, I found an
Speaker 1: unsent message from Rachel, wish you could stay the whole
Speaker 1: night next time, miss waking up with you. I closed
Speaker 1: the app, put everything back exactly as I'd found it,
Speaker 1: wiped my fingerprints from the plastic. When Jason came inside,
Speaker 1: he looked at me with the same distracted affection as always,
Speaker 1: as if everything inside him wasn't already elsewhere. He asked
Speaker 1: if I wanted to go for ice cream, but the
Speaker 1: thought of even pretending to smile made me want to scream.
Speaker 1: That night, I confronted the ceiling in our bedroom, tears
Speaker 1: leaking across the bridge of my nose, the fan whirring overhead.
Speaker 1: I wasn't just grieving the man beside me, but the
Speaker 1: version of myself who still believed in the couple we'd been,
Speaker 1: the one who forgave distance, who made excuses, who waited
Speaker 1: for him to come home. While scrolling through photos of
Speaker 1: a club she was no longer invited to. Saturday morning,
Speaker 1: I mustered the energy to call Tara. Choking out the
Speaker 1: truth through clenched teeth. It's her, it's Rachel, he's with her.
Speaker 1: I found his phone, the messages, everything. I braced for
Speaker 1: what I just said to echo back, but Tara only said, oh, erin.
Speaker 1: She offered to come right over, and when she arrived,
Speaker 1: I dissolved, embarrassed by how glad I was for company,
Speaker 1: for someone to reassure me that I hadn't imagined every
Speaker 1: warning sign. We talked through every detail, each piece of
Speaker 1: evidence each day Jason had lied. Tara, always practical, pulled
Speaker 1: out a note book. You need to decide. Do you
Speaker 1: want to confront him now or collect everything I can help.
Speaker 1: I hadn't thought that far ahead. I just what if
Speaker 1: I missed something? What if there's more? Tara squeezed my hand.
Speaker 1: Would it change anything if you knew it all? I
Speaker 1: shook my head, but it was only half way true.
Speaker 1: That night, I did something I hadn't dared before. I
Speaker 1: skipped the pretenses, the hope for plausible deniability, and walked
Speaker 1: straight into the Green Horse. I ordered a drink, anchoring
Speaker 1: myself at the end of the bar, my presence intentional.
Speaker 1: Jason saw me almost immediately. His face flickered through surprise, apprehension,
Speaker 1: then a forced smile. Rachel was next to him, as always,
Speaker 1: head cocked in curiosity. I watched as Jason whispered something
Speaker 1: to her before making his way over. He tried for breezy, Hey,
Speaker 1: you made it to night, didn't text you? The theme
Speaker 1: its nineties movies. His words sounded brittle. I nodded, voice steady,
Speaker 1: no worries, needed some company. Rachel, catching my eye, gave
Speaker 1: a smile, not unfriendly, but guarded. There was an awkwardness,
Speaker 1: a tense triangulation. Jason introduced us finally, his words stumbling,
Speaker 1: stiffly erin. This is Rachel. She's in the building next door.
Speaker 1: Joined our group for a few rounds. Rachel surprised me
Speaker 1: by offering her hand. Nice to finally meet you. I've
Speaker 1: heard you're the music queen. Forced pleasantries filled the air,
Speaker 1: each of us measuring the other. Rachel seemed genuinely warm, chipper,
Speaker 1: no hint of awkwardness save for Jason's panic, glued smile.
Speaker 1: The conversation cycled around safe topics, rent increases, dog friendly
Speaker 1: coffee shops, the woes of the local subway project. I
Speaker 1: lasted an hour, long enough to watch their body language
Speaker 1: defensive on Jason's part, relaxed and open from Rachel. When
Speaker 1: I excused myself with a headache, Jason offered to walk
Speaker 1: me out At the curb. He lingered, arms folded, rocking
Speaker 1: on his heels. You okay, he asked, I fixed my
Speaker 1: gaze on the passing cabs. Are you He opened his mouth,
Speaker 1: closed it. I'll see you at home. I nodded and left,
Speaker 1: shivering all the way to the corner. I had proof now,
Speaker 1: not just on a phone or in a chat thread,
Speaker 1: but living and breathing in front of me. At home,
Speaker 1: I sat in the dark, foam glowing as Tara checked in.
Speaker 1: Go easy on yourself. She said, you have what you need.
Speaker 1: Don't let him spin it. I typed back a heart emoji,
Speaker 1: too weary for words. Every breath felt like an effort,
Speaker 1: every movement waited. I realized the hardest part wasn't bracing
Speaker 1: for confrontation. It was living in the day to day aftermath,
Speaker 1: the hours that stretched wide and silent after the certainty settled.
Speaker 1: Still I wasn't ready for fireworks. I watched him over
Speaker 1: the next days, trying to catch a trace of the
Speaker 1: man I'd loved, or even a flash of guilt, But
Speaker 1: mostly I saw someone going through motions, grocery shopping, making
Speaker 1: snarky breakfast jokes, sharing Netflix's recommendations with a surface level
Speaker 1: warmth that only made the gaps more glaring. He started
Speaker 1: leaving earlier for work, coming home later. Excuses thickened client dinner,
Speaker 1: late review night Jim session. If I texted, his answers
Speaker 1: were either instant and clipped or delayed and rambling. I
Speaker 1: deleted half the drafts I composed angry, confrontational pleading. Instead,
Speaker 1: I became a quiet observer, my presence shrinking from the
Speaker 1: center of his world to a silent fixture in the background.
Speaker 1: One night, I went so far as to walk past
Speaker 1: Rachel's building. I saw the soft yellow glow in what
Speaker 1: I guessed was her apartment, shadowy figures moving behind the curtains.
Speaker 1: I felt pathetic, standing on the opposite sidewalk, an unwilling
Speaker 1: protagonist in a movie I hadn't auditioned for. The truth
Speaker 1: was out in the open, hovering just beyond words. I
Speaker 1: stopped copying down clues. Instead, I waited. I wanted to
Speaker 1: hear him say it. I wanted the dignity of not
Speaker 1: having to pase another lie As trivia night approached, I
Speaker 1: checked the calendar. Jason had already blocked out his evening.
Speaker 1: I sent a last message to Tara. I'm going to
Speaker 1: do it to night after he gets home. I'm not
Speaker 1: letting this keep going. Tara responded instantly, I'm here if
Speaker 1: you need back up. Remember you already survived the worst
Speaker 1: of it. I washed my face, put on a shirt
Speaker 1: he once called his favorite, and waited at the kitchen
Speaker 1: table determination, finally quieting the pit in my stomach. When
Speaker 1: Jason's key turned in the lock that night, I stood
Speaker 1: up and called, can we talk? He stopped, coat half off,
Speaker 1: seeing the set of my shoulders, the rawness in my eyes.
Speaker 1: His mouth formed a question, but he didn't speak it.
Speaker 1: For the first time in months, neither one of us
Speaker 1: looked away. He looked at me, mouth pressed flat now,
Speaker 1: and let his keys rattle to the counter. For a moment,
Speaker 1: neither of us moved. I was hyper aware of the
Speaker 1: small glass of water i'd poured, the dishes in the sink,
Speaker 1: the worn patch in the kitchen tile where we always
Speaker 1: cut through to the hall. I couldn't stand the teetering silence.
Speaker 1: After all this clenching, I had no patience for another delay,
Speaker 1: I said, with a steadiness that felt unfamiliar. WE need
Speaker 1: to talk about Rachel. His eyes widened a fraction, then
Speaker 1: darted to the side, as if tracking for exits. What
Speaker 1: about her, he asked, voice light shaky, already reaching for
Speaker 1: the performance he used at work. He dropped his bag
Speaker 1: by the table. The motion deliberate, I went on, unwilling
Speaker 1: to let him re root me. I know you're seeing her.
Speaker 1: I know it's not work or stress or anything to
Speaker 1: do with trivia. I've seen the messages, Jason, I saw
Speaker 1: you at the bar together. This. You can't spin this
Speaker 1: any more. His face went through shpifts had never seen
Speaker 1: stacked side by side. Panic, then calculation, then frostration. I
Speaker 1: waited for the rehearsed denial, the blustery brush off. Instead
Speaker 1: for a blink, he almost looked relieved, as if the
Speaker 1: act of being discovered set him loose. O K, he
Speaker 1: finally said, rubbing a hand over his face. Voice warbled,
Speaker 1: I guess you deserve that much. At least that landed
Speaker 1: with the kind of finality neither of us could pretend away.
Speaker 1: I waited for what would happen next, for the script,
Speaker 1: I hoped would give me my cue, the apology, the rationalization,
Speaker 1: the stammered confession. I could yell at or collapse into
Speaker 1: something absolute. Instead, he just looked at me, letting the
Speaker 1: weight settle. The kitchen clock ticked twice. I realized I've
Speaker 1: been holding my breath. I wanted to pretend as long
Speaker 1: as I could, he said, eyes on the flooring. I didn't.
Speaker 1: This isn't how I meant for it to go. I
Speaker 1: was just I felt stuck erin. Then she was there
Speaker 1: all the time, and I told myself it was casual,
Speaker 1: and fuck. I knew I was lying, but it felt
Speaker 1: easier than He cut off jaw tightening. My throat felt raw,
Speaker 1: but my voice was clear. How long a few months,
Speaker 1: he whispered, since early spring. I tried to end it.
Speaker 1: I did, but it never really stopped. I kept thinking
Speaker 1: I could compartmentalize that you wouldn't notice. I know how
Speaker 1: awful that sounds. The certainty I'd steeled myself for the
Speaker 1: validation of every gnawing doubt landed with a kind of
Speaker 1: numb resignation. I forced myself to keep my gaze steady.
Speaker 1: So every Thursday, every Trivia night, that was you being
Speaker 1: with her. I didn't want or need the details, but
Speaker 1: I could not ask. He nodded, a tear, tracking down
Speaker 1: beside his nose. Whether it was for me, for Rachel,
Speaker 1: or for the collapse of his own myth, I didn't know.
Speaker 1: I picked a spot on the kitchen counter to stare at.
Speaker 1: The silence between us started to taste metallic. You could
Speaker 1: have told me the truth I managed. You could have
Speaker 1: spared me all these tiny humiliations. The lying was worse
Speaker 1: than anything you actually did. Do you get that, He
Speaker 1: shook his head, voice breaking. I don't know how to
Speaker 1: say sorry for that. I thought I could handle it.
Speaker 1: I thought i'd outgrow it or end it and you'd
Speaker 1: never have to know. Then it just kept going, and
Speaker 1: I started needing her to get through the weak, which
Speaker 1: is no excuse, I know, But I was drowning. I
Speaker 1: could almost laugh at the backward logic of it, and
Speaker 1: how he described drowning while I'd been the ghost at home,
Speaker 1: preserving momentum for both of us. You made me feel crazy,
Speaker 1: I said, barely above a whisper. You made me chase
Speaker 1: my own shadow for months? Why not just say it?
Speaker 1: I was afraid I didn't want to hurt you. He answered,
Speaker 1: wild and apologetic and missing the point in a thousand
Speaker 1: tiny ways, and part of me really thought it would fade.
Speaker 1: Would you have told me if I hadn't forced it
Speaker 1: to night, i asked, voice brittle, Or would you have
Speaker 1: just kept compartmentalizing, sleeping in both lives? I don't know.
Speaker 1: I honestly don't know, he said, finally, crumpling against the
Speaker 1: edge of the table. I kept telling myself I'd make
Speaker 1: a choice, but I didn't. I just kept waiting for
Speaker 1: something to tip me over. A sharp pressure built behind
Speaker 1: my forehead. I felt something inside me click over from
Speaker 1: heartbreak to survival. What now, I said, though the answer
Speaker 1: had hardened long ago. Jason's face was blotched, half lit
Speaker 1: by the overbright kitchen. Do you want me to leave?
Speaker 1: The question was small, almost childish, and for a moment
Speaker 1: I saw the version of him. I'd built my home
Speaker 1: around all nerves and too late remorse, unable to stake
Speaker 1: any ground. I need you to go, I said, voice
Speaker 1: soft but unyielding. I need to be alone. I need
Speaker 1: to not see you for a while. He blinked, as
Speaker 1: if the sentence had an edge he hadn't anticipated. I
Speaker 1: get it. I do just I'm sorry, Erin. I know
Speaker 1: that doesn't mean anything. I'm sorry, don't be sorry. Just go,
Speaker 1: I replied, pulse steady, gaze, unwavering. I'll send you what
Speaker 1: you need for your stuff. We can figure out the
Speaker 1: rest later. Please just go, he hesitated. Can I say
Speaker 1: good bye to Nash? He meant, our old cat, the
Speaker 1: one we'd named half ironically when we moved in together
Speaker 1: years ago, already long gone, but now in the heat
Speaker 1: of this unmaking, resurrected as a symbol. My lips twisted.
Speaker 1: You don't get to say good bye to anything right now,
Speaker 1: just yourself. Just leave me the keys. He stood there, frozen,
Speaker 1: a man dazed on the edge of grief, guilt, and
Speaker 1: unwonted freedom. I didn't budge the scalded, ugly silence pressed
Speaker 1: around us. Finally, he turned and shuffled down the hall,
Speaker 1: collecting his messenger bag and jacketabbing the keys from beside
Speaker 1: the door, pausing as if to reconsider. I stood perfectly
Speaker 1: still until I heard his footsteps fade in the corridor.
Speaker 1: The elevator whirring down. The apartment rang with emptiness, the
Speaker 1: kind that clung to the ceiling, pooling in the corners
Speaker 1: I locked the door behind him, hands trembling. Only when
Speaker 1: all was said and done, I sat on the floor
Speaker 1: and let the crash come. Ragged sobs I pressed into
Speaker 1: my palms. I felt every bruise of the last few months,
Speaker 1: everything I'd held back to keep things running. There were
Speaker 1: no words, just the knowledge that waiting, doubting, forgiving, none
Speaker 1: of it made me immune to the ground shifting underneath.
Speaker 1: I didn't know how long I stayed there, knees pulled
Speaker 1: tight to my chest, light flickering out in the city
Speaker 1: beyond the glass. Eventually my phone buzzed a message from Tara,
Speaker 1: a lone heart emoji. I typed back, it's done. The
Speaker 1: apartment felt enormous, echoing, no longer inhabited by anything but
Speaker 1: the truth. Later, I pulled myself upright and collected what
Speaker 1: strength I had left. I grabbed the small duffel from
Speaker 1: the closet, stuffing it with the bare minimum jeans, soap chargers,
Speaker 1: the blue sweater Tara bought me on my last birthday.
Speaker 1: I hesitated at our fridge, pulled off the couple photos
Speaker 1: from under magnets, leaving the faded tulip on the table
Speaker 1: at the front door. I left Jason said of keys
Speaker 1: and his back up phone proof reminders, loose ends in
Speaker 1: a bowl, taped a short note on their side, don't
Speaker 1: contact me right now. With my bag in hand, I
Speaker 1: walked slowly to the elevators, feeling the relief and shock
Speaker 1: commingle in each step. I left a message for h R,
Speaker 1: letting them know I needed a few days voice even,
Speaker 1: and clipped. The city's night hum met me as I
Speaker 1: stepped outside, cool air, scraping the sweat from my face.
Speaker 1: At Tara's apartment, I let myself in quietly. She emerged wordlessly,
Speaker 1: arms open, and let me sink into her embrace. Nothing
Speaker 1: was fixed, but I wasn't alone with my undoing. I
Speaker 1: slept early that night, exhaustion, swallowing the noise of worry
Speaker 1: for the first time in weeks. When I woke, sunlight
Speaker 1: bled through unfamiliar curtains, and I remembered clearly and impossibly
Speaker 1: that I'd survived the hardest part. The world didn't write itself,
Speaker 1: but something shifted the lines between before and after, finally
Speaker 1: sharp the next step, unchosen but possible. I waited for
Speaker 1: the inevitable message from Jason, and when it came, pleading, apologizing,
Speaker 1: asking to talk. I let it go to voicemail, heart
Speaker 1: pounding but steady. By evening, a mutual friend texted me.
Speaker 1: He left a note in his keys. If you need anything,
Speaker 1: let me know, I replied, only thanks. I sent a
Speaker 1: single message to our friend group Jason and I are separating.
Speaker 1: I'm not asking for sides. Please don't speculate, just respect
Speaker 1: my space. The responses were brief but kind. For a while,
Speaker 1: I idled on Tara's small couch, coffee cooling in my hands, silent, sitting,
Speaker 1: heavy but not hostile. I thought about what people say
Speaker 1: that the worst part of betrayal isn't the act, but
Speaker 1: the unspooling of everything you built together. But this, I realized,
Speaker 1: felt more like waking after a fever. The familiar world
Speaker 1: there but changed, the next breath, unpromised and more precious
Speaker 1: for it. On my second morning away from the loft,
Speaker 1: I stood in the shower until the water rang cold,
Speaker 1: letting it numb every shivering muscle. When I stepped out,
Speaker 1: wrapped in a towel, there was a note from Tara
Speaker 1: on the sink. You don't owe any one an explanation.
Speaker 1: Let me know if you want to walk to night.
Speaker 1: I decided as I dressed that i'd walk my own root.
Speaker 1: I needed air or whatever lay outside the cocoon of
Speaker 1: old arguments and half answers. Slipping on sneakers, I left
Speaker 1: Tara and No and pocketed my phone. Walking out into
Speaker 1: blue dusk, my feet carried me toward the old Roots,
Speaker 1: across the avenue, past the dog park down Maine, where
Speaker 1: the street lights flickered. I found myself drawn inevitably to
Speaker 1: the Green Horse, the bar where I'd spent so many
Speaker 1: Thursday nights, believing, hoping, second guessing. The glow of trivia
Speaker 1: night poured through the windows, music, laughter, the soundtrack of
Speaker 1: other peoples, always spinning merrily on. I didn't hesitate at
Speaker 1: the door, didn't even look through the glass. Instead, I
Speaker 1: scrolled through my phone, thumb hovering over the trivia group chat.
Speaker 1: My name still flickered in the corner, a digital phantom.
Speaker 1: I pressed and held, let the option pop delete group.
Speaker 1: It felt clinical, anticlimactic, but I did it, thumb steady.
Speaker 1: I slipped the phone back in my pocket, standing just
Speaker 1: on the sidewalk beneath the neon haze, cool air brushing
Speaker 1: my face, laughter drifting out around me. The city surged forward,
Speaker 1: uncaring and beautiful. I felt the ache, but also unmistakably
Speaker 1: the simple certainty that I was finally done waiting for
Speaker 1: the answers. I'd already survived a car rolled by headlights,
Speaker 1: sweeping across the pitted sidewalk, Pulling me back into the present,
Speaker 1: I realized I still hadn't really let my lungs fill.
Speaker 1: Somewhere between the steady throb in my chest and the
Speaker 1: scraped rawness in my throat, I'd become acutely aware of
Speaker 1: just how tired I was. But there was a quiet, too,
Speaker 1: the kind that comes the moment after you close a
Speaker 1: slammed door, when the shouting has stopped but the echoes
Speaker 1: haven't faded. I walked slowly down the block away from
Speaker 1: the bar, willing my mind to hush. The city was moving,
Speaker 1: after all, carrying me with it, even when I couldn't
Speaker 1: feel it. A block away, my phone buzzed again. I
Speaker 1: pulled it out, almost expecting another message from Jason, but
Speaker 1: it was an old friend from college. I just heard
Speaker 1: are you okay? Text? I stared at it for a
Speaker 1: long moment before deciding not to answer. There was nothing
Speaker 1: to say. Every notification, every digital ripple, from the life
Speaker 1: I had spent so long entangled in felt suddenly beside
Speaker 1: the point. At the next intersection, pedestrians jostled past, brushing
Speaker 1: my arm and shoulder without apology. Someone laughed a huge
Speaker 1: barking sound, and a piece of me felt envious of
Speaker 1: the simplicity of being someone whose night wasn't rewritten by
Speaker 1: the weight of secrets. I found myself standing under the
Speaker 1: blinking don't walk sign, watching droplets gather along the power line,
Speaker 1: each moment sharpened by the sense that, aside from being
Speaker 1: heartbreakingly alone, I was no longer waiting for another shoe
Speaker 1: to drop. Tara texted again home if you want company
Speaker 1: or just call. I walked another block before answering, telling
Speaker 1: her I needed a bit of air, that I wouldn't
Speaker 1: be long. There was relief sinking into my limbs at
Speaker 1: the idea that someone was steady near by, but stubbornness
Speaker 1: kept me moving, refusing at least for to night, to
Speaker 1: fall straight back into the arms of any rescue, even
Speaker 1: and the kind she so relieably offered. Passing a bakery,
Speaker 1: I caught my own reflection in the glass above, a
Speaker 1: display of coissask gone stale for the night, hair frizzed
Speaker 1: from the damp, a paleness to the skin I barely recognized.
Speaker 1: I wondered when I'd started to look this strained, and
Speaker 1: how long it would take not to put myself back together,
Speaker 1: but just to recognize my outline again, without the sharp
Speaker 1: jags of suspicion and disappointment shaping the edges. It was there,
Speaker 1: staring at myself in the faint neon that I felt
Speaker 1: the biggest crack open. Not anger or grief, but something
Speaker 1: like deflation, a spentness that warned me away from promises, plans,
Speaker 1: even expectations for what the next hour should hold. I
Speaker 1: pressed my forehead to the glass, briefly shutting my eyes,
Speaker 1: letting the coolness settle my nerves. A moment later, I
Speaker 1: blew out a long breath, straightened and turned for home.
Speaker 1: Home now a word with no certain geography, a place
Speaker 1: that had been both setanctuary and trap depending on the hour.
Speaker 1: Outside Tara's building, the wind had picked up. The only
Speaker 1: thing I wanted, I discovered was momentum, feet moving, lungs working,
Speaker 1: the simple satisfaction of not freezing in place. As I
Speaker 1: climbed the stairs, bag bumping against my hip exhaustion overtook
Speaker 1: the adrenaline that had carried me this far. I needed rest.
Speaker 1: A safe, bland room was welcome. Inside Tara sat cross
Speaker 1: legged on the rug, bathed in the light of her laptop.
Speaker 1: She barely glanced up, but her presence was a low
Speaker 1: hum of safety. I dropped beside her, feeling the thud
Speaker 1: of the day settle, so she asked, reading me without effort,
Speaker 1: I deleted the group, walked around, watched people live. I
Speaker 1: said it with a wry smile. I think I'm just done.
Speaker 1: Tara nodded, hand wrapping around mine briefly. Good, that's enough
Speaker 1: for to night. We sat in a pillow fort hush
Speaker 1: until she strayed etched and left me to the guest room.
Speaker 1: Knowing better than to press, I lay on the borrowed sheets,
Speaker 1: listening to the city for a while, letting the whorls
Speaker 1: of noise press against the hollow spots inside me. Distant traffic,
Speaker 1: a siren, then laughter somewhere down the hall, a neighbor's
Speaker 1: force it ran. I rolled on to my side, not
Speaker 1: expecting sleep, but willing to let my body collapse into
Speaker 1: something resembling rest. I woke to my phone buzzing. There
Speaker 1: was no mistaking the name on the screen. Jason misst call,
Speaker 1: then voicemail. Heart thumping, I watched the notification fade, replaced
Speaker 1: by a text, I'm moving out to day left the
Speaker 1: keys under the plant won't make a scene. I'm so sorry, Erin.
Speaker 1: I put the phone down without replying. A while later,
Speaker 1: another text arrived, Liz, this time here if you need
Speaker 1: no sides, I replied only with the thumbs up. Unable
Speaker 1: to muster even a sentence, I forced myself up, padding
Speaker 1: through Tara's apartment in socks, making coffee with mechanical movements.
Speaker 1: My mind was both edge sharp and blank, spooling through logistics,
Speaker 1: bank accounts, rent the ad hoc choreography of unraveling lives
Speaker 1: that had once been knotted so tightly together. But the
Speaker 1: hardest work was invisible, refraining from answering every are you ok?
Speaker 1: Text with something that would pull me back to the beginning,
Speaker 1: resisting the urge to comb through every detail for some
Speaker 1: angle of redemption. By noon, when Jason's last things were
Speaker 1: gone from the loft, confirmed by a mutual friend who
Speaker 1: volunteered as courier, I felt almost painfully the absence that
Speaker 1: follows disaster, the air was different. Moving quietly through Tara's kitchen,
Speaker 1: I felt the ache of spaces rendered vacant all at once.
Speaker 1: I sat there, mug cooling in my hands, and wondered
Speaker 1: how many Thursdays would pass before Trivia night faded to
Speaker 1: something as distant as a password I'd long since forgotten.
Speaker 1: The rest was paperwork, emails exchanged, keys del livered, a code,
Speaker 1: lock changed, Each mundane act a small scissor snip through
Speaker 1: the thread of what we'd built. Late that afternoon, I
Speaker 1: opened my laptop and hovered over photos, trips, parties, dinners,
Speaker 1: the catalog of we from before the slow detonation. It
Speaker 1: was a museum now, each image sparking both longing and relief.
Speaker 1: I selected them all and moved them to a folder
Speaker 1: titled Later, not ready to delete, but kneading them out
Speaker 1: of sight. For now. I wasn't about rewriting history or
Speaker 1: burning bridges. I only wanted to breathe without stumbling over
Speaker 1: the wreckage. Evening fell, the city turning purple and gold
Speaker 1: beyond the windows. I wandered out again, the streets flickering
Speaker 1: in puddled light. The ache gentler, now less a knife
Speaker 1: than a bruise. I let my feet take me past
Speaker 1: the Mexican place where we used to meet friends around
Speaker 1: the block, to an old, cracked stoop where I'd once
Speaker 1: watched fireworks with Jason in our first wild year in
Speaker 1: the city. I found, to my surprise that the memory
Speaker 1: didn't taste like ashes, just like something old, already drifting
Speaker 1: into distance. My phone vibrated in my pocket. I almost
Speaker 1: ignored it, but curiosity won out. It was mark simple,
Speaker 1: as ever, whatever you need, I'm here. It struck me
Speaker 1: that the circle would not shrink completely, that there would
Speaker 1: still be places people who didn't vanish with the relationship itself.
Speaker 1: Back in Tara's building, I paused before going up. There
Speaker 1: was a small garden along the curb, half wild, lilac
Speaker 1: poking through the fence. I reached over and plucked a
Speaker 1: fallen blossom, pressed it between my palms. I stood there
Speaker 1: for a while, cool stem against my skin, and allowed
Speaker 1: myself to hope that small things might still be available.
Speaker 1: A walk, a laugh, something gentle and undemanding. Inside, Tara
Speaker 1: was cross legged in her favorite chair, feet tucked under,
Speaker 1: eyes soft as she watched me step in. I smiled
Speaker 1: genuine this time, and joined her In the quiet. We
Speaker 1: didn't need to discuss anything, didn't need to fill the
Speaker 1: air with guesses or advice. Her friendship was a balm,
Speaker 1: fierce noisy when needed, but perfectly content to fill the
Speaker 1: silence with presents. Alone, we watched a dumb show on
Speaker 1: her laptop. I ate half a slice of pizza, the
Speaker 1: taste bland but solid. For the first time in a
Speaker 1: long stretch of weeks, I stopped checking the clock. Later,
Speaker 1: while Tara was brushing her teeth, I sent one final
Speaker 1: message to Liz and to Mark. I know it's awkward.
Speaker 1: Don't let my mess scare you off. I probably won't
Speaker 1: be at anything for a while, but don't let it
Speaker 1: be weird. Both replied with something like, You're not the
Speaker 1: weird one here. It counted for more than it should have.
Speaker 1: Night stretched slow and forgiving. From Tara's living room window,
Speaker 1: I could see the street washed clean by recent rain.
Speaker 1: I found unexpectedly that I could think about the future
Speaker 1: not as a blank or a threat, but as a
Speaker 1: possibley I didn't have to fill immediately. When sleep came,
Speaker 1: it was simple and uninterrupted. The next morning, I woke
Speaker 1: up early, made new coffee, and jotted a list, nothing dramatic,
Speaker 1: just groceries, a call to schedule with h R, a
Speaker 1: dry cleaning ticket still unclaimed. Life, mundane and staccato, reasserted itself,
Speaker 1: a steady drip that didn't ask my permission. I slipped
Speaker 1: into the small, neutral pleasures of silence, laundry, a soft
Speaker 1: chair by the window. That afternoon, after Tara headed out
Speaker 1: for work, I took an umbrella and my battered old
Speaker 1: ear buds and traced my way back toward home, my
Speaker 1: real home, or what was left of it. The loft.
Speaker 1: I walked without hurry, ducking between awnings at every crosswalk,
Speaker 1: my steps less heavy than I'd feared. In front of
Speaker 1: the building, I hesitated. Part of me wanted to bolt,
Speaker 1: to lock the door behind me forever. But another part,
Speaker 1: the one still stubborn enough to believe in forward motion,
Speaker 1: knew I needed to do this myself. I went inside
Speaker 1: the elevator, groaning as it carried me upward, and unlocked
Speaker 1: the door to our apartment. The space was almost exactly
Speaker 1: as I'd left it, no angry mess, just a barren quiet.
Speaker 1: Jason's things were mostly cleared, his laptop, the jacket always
Speaker 1: tossed on the arm chair, the mug he favored. The
Speaker 1: only thing he'd left was a small blue note book
Speaker 1: on the table, its cover bent, a page visible inside
Speaker 1: with a scrawled note. Sorry, that was it, nothing grand,
Speaker 1: no extended plea. I took a long look around, catalog
Speaker 1: the emptiness, then took my duffel and gathered what little
Speaker 1: was truly mine. I wiped down the kitchen counters, letting
Speaker 1: the soapy cloth erase the finger prints one last time.
Speaker 1: Closing the apartment door behind me, I let my hand
Speaker 1: linger on the handle. I didn't lock it, one of
Speaker 1: those small final acts of letting go, trusting the world
Speaker 1: enough to be done with vigilance, at least for to day.
Speaker 1: Stepping out into the hallway, I was lighter, not happier,
Speaker 1: not altogether relieved, just a fraction less encumbered. My steps
Speaker 1: grew quicker, steadier. The buildings familiar, creek and echo, now
Speaker 1: a curtain. I was ready, finally to step past, back
Speaker 1: out on the street. The late afternoon light painted everything
Speaker 1: in a blue tipped gold. I felt the remains of
Speaker 1: grief and loss and humiliation, but they no longer pressed
Speaker 1: in from all sides. They were just there, not a
Speaker 1: raised but fitted into a shape, I could carry. It
Speaker 1: was only as I rounded the first corner toward nothing
Speaker 1: in particular, toward air or freedom, or just the day
Speaker 1: left to be used. However, I chose that I realized
Speaker 1: I no longer needed answers. There was no neat closure,
Speaker 1: no guarantee, no story to finish aside from my own.
Speaker 1: That was enough. I took a breath, let it go,
Speaker 1: and kept walking.