Speaker 1: The first thing I notice is the silence. Not the
Speaker 1: gentle hum of early morning birds stirring a neighbor's garage
Speaker 1: yawning open, but the particular hush of absence. Nate and
Speaker 1: I have run together every Friday for years. I'm standing
Speaker 1: on the porch, shoes still untied, foam cradled in my hand,
Speaker 1: listening for his footsteps, counting the seconds before the world
Speaker 1: really wakes up. Inside the bathroom force its sputters to life.
Speaker 1: A hint of mint drifts through the screen door. I
Speaker 1: balance on one foot, towing the heel of my sneaker, waiting.
Speaker 1: I shoot him a text five mins or I'll start
Speaker 1: without your playlist. His reply comes muffled by the walls,
Speaker 1: already squeezed my run in early. There's a clang of something,
Speaker 1: a mug maybe against the counter, Then his voice, trying
Speaker 1: for lightness. Wanted to get ahead of the day. Thought
Speaker 1: i'd let you sleep in. He's never gone out alone
Speaker 1: before our Friday run. I fumble with my laces and paws.
Speaker 1: No empty nalgene bottle drying by the sink, no teltial
Speaker 1: streak of sunscreen on his brow. He appears in the
Speaker 1: hall in boxes hair towel damp, already veering toward the shower,
Speaker 1: giving me a breezy wave. Got a rush client, move
Speaker 1: the eight thirty call up. Sorry, I just blink at him.
Speaker 1: No coffee. He shakes his head side steps around me
Speaker 1: too wired rain check his shirt is inside out, collar
Speaker 1: escaping over his shoulder, and when I lean in for
Speaker 1: a peck, he glances back at the mirror, distracted. Love
Speaker 1: you tea. I take my coffee black and set my
Speaker 1: mug on the porch, railing. My brain picks at the details.
Speaker 1: He always logs his miles on Strava, cataloging every split
Speaker 1: as if our shared run is both ritual and gentle competition.
Speaker 1: I open the app before I can talk myself out
Speaker 1: of it. Nothing's been up, plowed last activity yesterday afternoon.
Speaker 1: Maybe he just forgot to track, Maybe his phone was dead,
Speaker 1: or he needed to process work in his own head,
Speaker 1: the way he sometimes does after tricky client meetings. Maybe
Speaker 1: I'm reading into nothing. Veins thin with caffeine and three
Speaker 1: nights running of fitful sleep. After my solo run along
Speaker 1: the creek, I shower, brush my hair into a pony till,
Speaker 1: and slip on my company tea. For to day's community event.
Speaker 1: Our suburb is holding a spring into giving fair arts booths,
Speaker 1: local vendors, foundation reps every Austin cliche. In one open park,
Speaker 1: I pack up sample swatches from my interior design firm
Speaker 1: and try not to dwell on feeling for once offbeat
Speaker 1: in our steadied two step. It's mid afternoon when the
Speaker 1: Nate I know appears, or rather someone who looks like
Speaker 1: my husband, talking with sharp animated gestures. Beside the event
Speaker 1: coffee cart, I'm helping a couple choose a paint palette.
Speaker 1: When the boriss calls out, Hey, Nick usual iced matcher matcher.
Speaker 1: Nate only drinks it at home late at night with honey.
Speaker 1: Never hear He grins, but it comes out thin the
Speaker 1: usual share, thanks and see you later at the park.
Speaker 1: The barista adds there's a beat. He gives a small
Speaker 1: tight laugh and responds, wouldn't miss it. Then, aware of
Speaker 1: the line behind, he pulls out his phone and types
Speaker 1: something almost in retreat. I hover by a display of
Speaker 1: rattan lamps, watching a little cluster of volunteers surrounds him.
Speaker 1: A few faces unfamiliar, One, a tall woman in a
Speaker 1: bright running vest, touches his arm. When she laughs, Nate's
Speaker 1: gestures become broader, more open, and his words rush out.
Speaker 1: They're deep in a joke, bodies angling inward. I can't
Speaker 1: remember the last time I saw him beam like that.
Speaker 1: At home, I stay behind my booth another half hour,
Speaker 1: then escape to the restroom in the metal cold silence,
Speaker 1: my hands shakes. I pull up our text thread old
Speaker 1: Friday selfies, playlists, mean Wars, none recently. I close the app.
Speaker 1: On the way back, I pass Nate now in conversation
Speaker 1: with a couple from the city council and a different
Speaker 1: set of volunteers. He flicks a glance at me, casual,
Speaker 1: then goes back to the group. For the first time
Speaker 1: in years, I feel like I'm glimpsing someone else's life
Speaker 1: through a window, a spectator at my own marriage. Driving home,
Speaker 1: the city recedes, and my thoughts collect themselves in short,
Speaker 1: defensive bursts. It's just a busy week. He's entitled to
Speaker 1: some mystery. I'm not his warden. But even as I
Speaker 1: say it, I picture him laughing and loose, not wary
Speaker 1: like he's been with me lately. There were months and
Speaker 1: years when those gestures belong to us, not to others.
Speaker 1: At home, I change into leggings and try to drown
Speaker 1: the static in work. I style fota edits from last
Speaker 1: month's cottage reno polish copy for a client's kitchen mood boar,
Speaker 1: but my gaze drifts more than it should. I open
Speaker 1: our shared expense app, half out of habit and scroll
Speaker 1: through the latest charges. Another twenty at Cafe Clementine, the
Speaker 1: park adjacent spot. It's become a running joke. Stop in,
Speaker 1: grab two cocoanut scones, split them on a bench before
Speaker 1: the run, always two drinks. But I haven't been with
Speaker 1: him there for weeks. I close the app and on
Speaker 1: autopilot call my sister Vivian, ostensibly for a recipe, really
Speaker 1: for the sound of someone unconditionally familiar. She asks how
Speaker 1: s Nate, and I stumble for a beat before answering.
Speaker 1: Next day I try to let it go. Saturday mornings
Speaker 1: mean pancakes, dog walks in the green belt, some kind
Speaker 1: of puttering, but Nates up before the sun, dressing in
Speaker 1: cargo shorts and an old campaign tea backpack already slung
Speaker 1: over one arm. Early start, I ask, pouring milk over granola,
Speaker 1: He checks his watch. Volunteer admin meeting inventory for this
Speaker 1: new art project at the park. I'd invite you, but
Speaker 1: it's just logistics, clipboards, sign ups, so boring. He's at
Speaker 1: the door before I realize he hasn't even had coffee.
Speaker 1: You want a hand, I try. I can swing by
Speaker 1: with snacks later, he shakes his head, smiling a little
Speaker 1: too broadly. Let's catch up this afternoon. Saturdays used to
Speaker 1: be ours, the day we'd let routines slide, may be
Speaker 1: napped together, buy doughnuts at the market, argue about which
Speaker 1: plant wants the window seat. Now it seems he can't
Speaker 1: leave quickly enough. When he returns, the sun s near overhead,
Speaker 1: heats shimmering off the driveway. He gives me a quick
Speaker 1: hug and head straight for the shower. Later, he claims
Speaker 1: he needs to edit a last minute proposal before dinner time,
Speaker 1: vanishing into his office with the door firmly closed. I
Speaker 1: make myself busy reorganizing the pantry, repotting a spider plant,
Speaker 1: every so often listening for footsteps or the creak of
Speaker 1: his chair. In the evening, as we wash up after dinner,
Speaker 1: I mention as lightly as I can that barista yesterday
Speaker 1: she called you Nick am I missing some inside joke?
Speaker 1: He gives a half smile, towel drying his plate. It's
Speaker 1: just a running thing, guys at the park joke I
Speaker 1: order like nickofman sticks, I guess. I nod, forcing myself
Speaker 1: to laugh along, but the niggle stays. We both know
Speaker 1: I always hated nicknames. That night, I text Rachel, a
Speaker 1: mutual friend from our trivia group. Ever heard people call
Speaker 1: Nate nick She writes back a string of laughing emojis.
Speaker 1: No idea, barista's always come up with weird nicknames. Maybe
Speaker 1: it's just a cutesy thing. Don't overthink. As I lay
Speaker 1: in bed, I stare at the ceiling fan, listening to
Speaker 1: Nate's steady breath beside me, wondering if maybe I am overthinking.
Speaker 1: But every so often his phone vibrates across the night stand,
Speaker 1: green turned away, the edge of the light just outside
Speaker 1: my reach. At Sunday's fundraising mixer, we circle the room together,
Speaker 1: making chitchat passing contribution forms to neighbors we know well.
Speaker 1: Nate is cornered by two of his new volunteer friends,
Speaker 1: women my age, both wearing matching love Local hats, and
Speaker 1: one nudges him laughing about kneading a break from your
Speaker 1: second home. He gives a practiced half shrug, and the
Speaker 1: three launch into easy banter, while I stay on the periphery,
Speaker 1: smiling at the punchline but inwardly prickling. On our way home,
Speaker 1: I wonder aloud if maybe I should join the next
Speaker 1: park clean up. Nate slips into that persuasive tone he
Speaker 1: uses at work. Honestly, I'll just be running cable and
Speaker 1: picking up trash. It's not as glamorous as Instagram makes
Speaker 1: it look. He squeezes my hand in the car, but
Speaker 1: there's a fragility to the gesture. The week turns over,
Speaker 1: work deadlines pile up, but little details keeps snagging me.
Speaker 1: Nate locking his phone when he sets it down, Wrappers
Speaker 1: from the coffee shop in the trash. Yet he never
Speaker 1: mentions going receipts for odd ball purchases, a second water bottle,
Speaker 1: a black beanie I've never seen, I correct myself. It's
Speaker 1: probably for some group photo op, or he's finally refreshing
Speaker 1: his worn out gear. One night over salad and roasted chicken,
Speaker 1: I ask running tomorrow, he hesitates, I'll probably go early again.
Speaker 1: Helps me clear my head before jumping on the laptop.
Speaker 1: I want to say we used to clear our heads together,
Speaker 1: but instead I nod, chewing in silence. The scrape of
Speaker 1: fork on plate suddenly very loud. A few days later,
Speaker 1: I bring up planning a getaway Fredericksburg Wineries, two nights,
Speaker 1: no laptops. Nate doesn't look up from his phone. I'd
Speaker 1: love to tea, but the community project's full on for
Speaker 1: a while. Can we keep it open ended? I text Vivian,
Speaker 1: Nate's maxed out at work. Am I overreacting? She writes back,
Speaker 1: you know him best, tire. Sometimes stress makes people weird.
Speaker 1: Don't make something of nothing. The next time I double
Speaker 1: check our joint card statement, I see more of those
Speaker 1: familiar twenty dollars charges, always in the morning, always marked
Speaker 1: Cafe clementon. Every transaction is two drinks, sometimes a pastry added.
Speaker 1: I tell myself it's just him meeting with volunteers, But
Speaker 1: a spark of something sharper lights in my chest. If
Speaker 1: these are group meetings, why does he never mention them?
Speaker 1: Why not just say? At Friday's neighborhood barbecue, Ben, one
Speaker 1: of Nate's oldest friends, teases him about late night mural planning.
Speaker 1: The group laughs, and even Nate manages a little beau.
Speaker 1: But when I ask Ben in the kitchen later, he blinks,
Speaker 1: mural planning must be something with the volunteers. Honestly, he
Speaker 1: barely tells me anything these days. He shrugs, refilling the
Speaker 1: ice bucket, and I feel like the only person out
Speaker 1: of the loop on my own street. On a whim,
Speaker 1: I check the laundry habit from when we both traveled
Speaker 1: for work, swapping detergents and making sure no special shirts
Speaker 1: got shrunk. Some mornings there's damp nylon and running socks.
Speaker 1: Other times nothing but the previous night's pajamas. I sniffer
Speaker 1: cotton tea pulled hastily from the hamper. There's a woody cologne,
Speaker 1: subtle and foreign. Nate's always worn light citrus ore when
Speaker 1: we were first dating. Nothing at all. This one is dark, musky, unfamiliar.
Speaker 1: Saturday night, we're brushing our teeth at the double Vanity
Speaker 1: and I attempt a joke, who are you smelling so
Speaker 1: good for on your runs? He grins around his tooth brush,
Speaker 1: trying to convince the park squirrels I'm sophisticated. I force
Speaker 1: a smile, but the acid in my gut tells a
Speaker 1: different story. On Monday, I call Nate at the agency voicemail.
Speaker 1: Later at dinner, he mentions a last minute proposal call,
Speaker 1: but when I ask if he landed the client, he
Speaker 1: just shrugs early, don't want to jinx it. The next morning,
Speaker 1: the odometer on his civic is higher than expected. Supplies run,
Speaker 1: he says, loading paint cans into the trunk. We ran
Speaker 1: out of brushes at the park. His tone is so casual,
Speaker 1: so easy, I almost believe it. Scrolling social media, I
Speaker 1: spot candid shots on the community group's page, Nate with
Speaker 1: a tall, effortlessly striking woman Leelah. She's grinning, one hand
Speaker 1: grazing his back as others unload art supplies. Nate's arm
Speaker 1: is looped behind her, almost protectively. There's a photo of
Speaker 1: them jogging together, Leelah's long braid swinging, Nate's face mid laugh.
Speaker 1: He looks relaxed, younger, a little wild around the eyes.
Speaker 1: I search their names together in the group's tagged albums.
Speaker 1: More of the same. No one else from our circle,
Speaker 1: just the volunteers. None of it seems posed for me.
Speaker 1: On Wednesday, with an hour to kill between sight visits.
Speaker 1: I pop into Cafe Clementon. Leela's seated in the corner
Speaker 1: foone propped on a weathered copy of Born to Run,
Speaker 1: Sipping a green smoothie. She waves as if expecting me.
Speaker 1: Hi Tiera. Nate talks about your firm all the time.
Speaker 1: You're is better half right. Her voice is friendly, bright,
Speaker 1: There's no hint of threat, no reason for me not
Speaker 1: to like her. I try to keep the lights on,
Speaker 1: I say, looping my purse on the chair opposite her.
Speaker 1: She grins, conspiratorial. You both are unstoppable. His running playlist
Speaker 1: is hilarious. Did you know he's into old school hip hop?
Speaker 1: He and I draw straws over who picks the worst
Speaker 1: pump up song. We call ourselves the real early birds
Speaker 1: crack of Dawn Warriors. I bite my lower lip, willing
Speaker 1: myself to keep the conversation breezy. He does like to
Speaker 1: get out before sunrise, she nods. Nick keeps us all motivated.
Speaker 1: You know he hates being late, she laughs. He really
Speaker 1: is the best part partner in crime for these projects.
Speaker 1: That word again, Nick, I feel my mouth go dry.
Speaker 1: Nick Leelah raises her eyebrows, smiling, Oh, group joke. It's
Speaker 1: stuck after he ordered that crazy smoky coffee like that
Speaker 1: offman guy in the memes. Now it's this thing. Maybe
Speaker 1: you had to be there. She takes another sip, suddenly
Speaker 1: engrossed in her phone. I excuse myself early, muttering about
Speaker 1: a consultation. The rest of the afternoon is a wash
Speaker 1: at home. I tell Nate I ran into Leelah that
Speaker 1: she spoke about their runs. He says she's just extra enthusiastic.
Speaker 1: Everything's a competition with her. His defenses are down, and
Speaker 1: for a flicker, I see the man I married, relaxed,
Speaker 1: eyes crinkled in amusement. But it passes quickly, and by
Speaker 1: bedtime I'm once again left alone with the hollowness, the
Speaker 1: growing suspicion that there's a choreography between them. I can't
Speaker 1: quite decipher. Days fall into an odd pattern. Nate's gone
Speaker 1: before sunrise on Tuesdays and Fridays. Now he'll leave a note,
Speaker 1: sometimes a playlist suggestion scribbled on the margin of a
Speaker 1: junk male flier. Sometimes nothing. I dinner's thin out, client call,
Speaker 1: don't wait up, or grabbing a bite with the volunteer crew.
Speaker 1: We'll heat something at home. If I'm late. One Thursday,
Speaker 1: the same cafe charge pops up again, two drinks, extra pastry.
Speaker 1: When I ask him about it. That evening, he's poking
Speaker 1: absently at a takeout salad, caught up with someone from
Speaker 1: the park group. That's all just a standing thing now
Speaker 1: and then I want to ask more to press, but
Speaker 1: I remember the tone in his voice the last time
Speaker 1: I got too close. A patient stretched thin a look
Speaker 1: over my shoulder, as if he could just walk away.
Speaker 1: Saturday morning, our living room fills with light, sunlight carving
Speaker 1: patterns along the hardwood. Nate already dressed, checking his phone
Speaker 1: with one thumb as he buttons his shirt flutters in
Speaker 1: his expression, a flash of guilt maybe, or just distraction.
Speaker 1: I offer to join the Mural Sight that morning, thinking
Speaker 1: it will be easier to see him in the wild,
Speaker 1: surrounded by his new world. He waves me off, apologetic,
Speaker 1: more boring logistics. I'll text when I'm done. By lunch,
Speaker 1: he's back, hair, damp shirts, smelling of unfamiliar soap, ducking
Speaker 1: into the laundry. I busy myself with invoices and fabric samples,
Speaker 1: curiosity nipping at me. When the time is right, I
Speaker 1: gently ask, shall we add those regular cafe runs to
Speaker 1: the budget. Want me to venmo you some cash if
Speaker 1: you're grabbing so many coffees out. His face closes, shoulders stiffening.
Speaker 1: It's inexpensive. We have bigger things to worry about, Tea.
Speaker 1: I want to argue to list every small way our
Speaker 1: lives are no longer knit together, but I let it drop.
Speaker 1: We are satellites passing in the same orbit, sharing brief eclipses,
Speaker 1: then binning away again. Confiding in Vivian comes less easily
Speaker 1: than I expect. Over Indian takeout, she asks how the
Speaker 1: house is coming along. I talk about new blinds, how
Speaker 1: the spice rack still hasn't found its forever spot. After
Speaker 1: a pause, I blurt things feel off vibe. She sets
Speaker 1: her fork down, eyes kind. Is Nate working too much again?
Speaker 1: He's got these volunteer projects, always gone, new routines, weird joking, nicknames,
Speaker 1: charges at the cafe, but I'm never invited. She puts
Speaker 1: a gentle hand on mine. I know what you're thinking,
Speaker 1: but people get weird with stress, especially after that client
Speaker 1: de barcle last year. Maybe he's just finding his footing again.
Speaker 1: I nod, but her words only deepen the ache. I
Speaker 1: remember nights from that rough patch, Nate folding into himself,
Speaker 1: muttering about being beyond fixable. I'd held his hand, then
Speaker 1: repeating we stick together always. Yet now all I can
Speaker 1: see is the gap between us, a widening river and
Speaker 1: me on one bank, waving while he drifts down some
Speaker 1: other current. When the community group shares more photos from
Speaker 1: the mural project, I study them carefully. Nate and Leela again.
Speaker 1: She's painting, He's perched on the edge of a bench,
Speaker 1: their knees nearly touching. Other volunteers are in the background,
Speaker 1: but there's an ease, almost a privacy, to their proximity.
Speaker 1: One photo shot from a distance captures them running matching pace,
Speaker 1: stride for stride. My stomach knots, and for the first
Speaker 1: time I let myself wonder if I'm interloper, trespassing on
Speaker 1: their inside. Joke Monday, another supplies run, his car clocked
Speaker 1: three dozen extra miles, stopped at the hardware outlet across
Speaker 1: the lake for bulk brushes, he says, tossing plastic bags
Speaker 1: in the garage save twenty bucks. I ask to see
Speaker 1: the receipt, jokingly, half expecting him to laugh. He frowns,
Speaker 1: sets the bag down and heads inside. Two nights later,
Speaker 1: I make dinner, a real one with tor dover recipes
Speaker 1: and all our old favorites. Nate comes home late, says
Speaker 1: he's starving, but pushes his plate away after a few bites,
Speaker 1: apologizing by saying he's just too tired, too stressed. I
Speaker 1: want to reach out and grab him, shake him until
Speaker 1: the old Nate falls out, but a tiredness roots me
Speaker 1: to my seat. It all builds to a threshold I
Speaker 1: don't see coming. The little knocks add up, A stray
Speaker 1: hair tie in his car. I don't recognize. I convince
Speaker 1: myself it's from Rachel's last lift to trivia night. A
Speaker 1: plastic loyalty card from Cafe Clementon in his wallet. Then,
Speaker 1: finally a flicker of normalcy. Nate suddenly attentive again. He
Speaker 1: suggests we run together Friday morning, his treat. He makes
Speaker 1: the coffee, scrolls through playlists until we're laughing about that
Speaker 1: one time we almost miss the starting bell at the
Speaker 1: Zilker ten k. Later, he puts on a movie and
Speaker 1: holds my feet in his lap. Gentle and considerate, all
Speaker 1: old affection restored. I feel foolish then, for how tightly wound.
Speaker 1: I'd been for every doubt, every suspicious glance at his
Speaker 1: call log, but the comfort is short lived. The next Saturday,
Speaker 1: the park hosts a clean up, volunteers, food trucks, music,
Speaker 1: and Nate bouncing between stations with a buzz of energy.
Speaker 1: I haven't seen in months. I'm busy at my booth,
Speaker 1: but I keep an eye out, noting how he keeps
Speaker 1: returning to his car. At the edge of the park.
Speaker 1: Near the end, I catch sight of Leelah standing with him,
Speaker 1: her hand on the open driver's window. They're laughing together.
Speaker 1: She leans in and slips something, maybe a note or
Speaker 1: a folded piece of paper, into his palm, before walking away,
Speaker 1: throwing a wink over her shoulder. Later that afternoon, Nate
Speaker 1: is all business at home, prepping for the week end
Speaker 1: mural unveiling. Refusing to meet my gaze, he tells me
Speaker 1: he has to finish a logist Dick's memo. Shut in
Speaker 1: his office, phone calls muted through the door. The unease,
Speaker 1: momentarily soothed, is now an acid burn. I dust the shelves,
Speaker 1: organize receipts, scrub already clean counters, but my mind is
Speaker 1: somewhere else. Entirely Sunday evening. I can't resist temptation. His
Speaker 1: backpack is by the door, half zipped. I reach inside, fingers,
Speaker 1: brush aside, tangled charger cords, a granola bar, pens, a
Speaker 1: folded flier from the festival. I open it. Scrawled on
Speaker 1: the inside flap is don't forget the secret mission, Nick,
Speaker 1: call me if you're running late. L underneath a phone
Speaker 1: number at dinner, Nate is all deflection. Big day tomorrow,
Speaker 1: he says, wolfing down pasta barely looking up from his phone,
Speaker 1: which he checks twice while pretending to read emails. Is
Speaker 1: it all in my head? Or does every gesture now
Speaker 1: conceal a private meaning I'm not invited to share. I
Speaker 1: weigh the flyer in my hand, in the quiet of
Speaker 1: the garage, throat tight, pulse, rabbiting in my chest. I
Speaker 1: try to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe
Speaker 1: this is what happens after years together. Paths diverge, then
Speaker 1: circle back if I just give us time. But the
Speaker 1: old comfort, the certainty, is gone, replaced by the steady
Speaker 1: drumbeat of not knowing. I waken the night, listen for
Speaker 1: his breath. Hear only the soft glow of his screen.
Speaker 1: My body aches from wanting answers I know he's not
Speaker 1: ready to give. I turn over and stare at the
Speaker 1: dark ceiling, rehearsing the questions I might never be brave
Speaker 1: enough to ask. I drift through the next week, alternating
Speaker 1: between simmering vigilance and moments where I force myself to
Speaker 1: act normal, to fold laundry, to throw candy bars into
Speaker 1: Nate's work, back to text cheerful emojis when he's late,
Speaker 1: and pretend I'm not mentally flipping each detail over like
Speaker 1: a detective with evidence she's not trained to interpret. To Day,
Speaker 1: I pass him in the hallway before dawn, his head
Speaker 1: bent over his phone, the mask of last night's sleep
Speaker 1: still soft on his face. He fumbles to tuck it away,
Speaker 1: then smiles as if nothing's unusual, and drops a kiss
Speaker 1: on my head. I ask early, run again, want me
Speaker 1: to tag along? He hesitates, just long enough for me
Speaker 1: to notice, Actually I could use some time to clear
Speaker 1: my brain. Big pitch to day, and I keep rewriting
Speaker 1: my opener. You know how I get sure? I say,
Speaker 1: think you'll be home for dinner? He flashes a thumbs up.
Speaker 1: I'll text if things run late. Then he's gone sneakers
Speaker 1: squeaking lightly at the door, leaving the faint after taste
Speaker 1: of cologne his but laced with something spiced and deeper.
Speaker 1: I recognize the bottle perched in our shower when he
Speaker 1: claimed was a Christmas gift from a client, but that
Speaker 1: doesn't track. This is something new. My mind starts cataloging sense,
Speaker 1: unable to help itself. After he leaves, I open the
Speaker 1: running app, scrolling back over a calendar of gaps. He's
Speaker 1: been running less, logging sporadically, sometimes not at all. I
Speaker 1: noticed that he started hiding his following list on Strava,
Speaker 1: no longer sharing cheer emojis on my own times. It's
Speaker 1: possible he's embarrassed about losing pace, or he wants to
Speaker 1: try new roots before inviting me, but the explanations all
Speaker 1: feel too Neat late afternoon, I wander the plant nursery
Speaker 1: after a sight consult half listening to a podcast. I
Speaker 1: can't focus on Rachel texts group Trivia's back on Friday
Speaker 1: night as versus the realtors you in. I hesitate. A
Speaker 1: social event sounds both necessary and exhausting. I reply, We'll
Speaker 1: check with Nate at home. Dinner is another half hearted affair.
Speaker 1: I bake salmon roast, sweet potatoes, sprinkle the salad with
Speaker 1: leftover goat cheese. Nate's late, the salmon turns tepid. When
Speaker 1: he finally gets home. He walks in carrying his laptop
Speaker 1: and a cooler tote one from the park event Neon
Speaker 1: pink against the grays of his workware. Sorry, mural crew
Speaker 1: wrapped late and Leela wanted to hash out sign up
Speaker 1: stuff for Saturday. I walk over, trying to keep it light.
Speaker 1: She must really love a good spreadsheet, he laughs, a
Speaker 1: little forced, anything to avoid painting. Hey, these look amazing.
Speaker 1: Sorry I should have texted. It feels like we're actors,
Speaker 1: circling lines we know by heart, but no longer believe. Friday,
Speaker 1: he begs off trivia sighting last minute work Ajita, rain check, Babe,
Speaker 1: don't let them down just because I'm cramming. Bring the
Speaker 1: team home for me. So I go letting my friends
Speaker 1: Pepper me with bowling, alley fries, gin and tonics and
Speaker 1: rapid fire questions about curtained choices and mid century barstools.
Speaker 1: I make jokes, I smile too much. I text Nate
Speaker 1: once at half time He doesn't answer until nearly midnight. Sorry,
Speaker 1: passed out at my desk. Love you win one for
Speaker 1: team Tea. The next morning, we collide in the kitchen
Speaker 1: over breakfast prep. He's over cheery, his smile a little
Speaker 1: tight park run to day mural unveiling dress rehearsal might
Speaker 1: be gone most of the morning. You want help, I offer, breezily,
Speaker 1: but I can see his knuckles tents around his coffee. Nah,
Speaker 1: promise I won't bring back glitter this time. I bite
Speaker 1: my lip, parsing the nervous energy radiating from him as
Speaker 1: he shrugs into his hoodie. I ask, wanna hit the
Speaker 1: trails to morrow? Just us? I try to make it
Speaker 1: sound fun, nostalgic. He looked surprised, then guarded. Let's see
Speaker 1: how I feel. Could be wiped, but yeah, maybe, I nod,
Speaker 1: watching the door ease shut behind him. Mid morning, a
Speaker 1: notification pings Leela has posted another story from the park.
Speaker 1: Slides of paint splattered shoes, a close up of a
Speaker 1: take out coffee beside a mu mural paint bucket, the
Speaker 1: tag at Nick in the Wild with a laughing emoji.
Speaker 1: I open his Instagram. He's like the photo left a
Speaker 1: tongue out emoji, but hasn't responded to my message about
Speaker 1: dinner plans from last night. I get up, unable to
Speaker 1: sit still, and cross to the laundry, sorting through the
Speaker 1: clothes in his hamper, there's his blue running tea, spattered
Speaker 1: with yellow paint, a streak down the back. He didn't
Speaker 1: mention getting messy. I check the pocket and find a
Speaker 1: receipt from Cafe clementon two coffees, one avocado toast tip
Speaker 1: in cash. The receipt is time stamped, almost an hour
Speaker 1: before the park event was supposed to start. When he returns,
Speaker 1: I meet him at the door, holding the tea. How
Speaker 1: do you get paint down your back? My voice is careful,
Speaker 1: deliberately mild. He glances at it, then shrugs, Oh Leela's
Speaker 1: a disaster. She slipped with the roller, practically tackled me.
Speaker 1: We were on a time crunch. I forught a laugh,
Speaker 1: but something inside me tightens. Sounds chaotic. He grins, ducking
Speaker 1: past me to the shower. It's always a circus when
Speaker 1: she brings snacks and music. She's like a caffeine tornado. Later,
Speaker 1: when he's in his office, I look through his gym bag, suddenly,
Speaker 1: desperate for some confirmation, any logical sign. It's a mess.
Speaker 1: Energy bars, a crumpled schedule for the art festival, a
Speaker 1: grocery list in his handwriting humous sprouted bread, oat, milk,
Speaker 1: and at the bottom, his missing keechin from last winter's trip,
Speaker 1: with a faded photo booth, pick of us, creases running
Speaker 1: through where our heads touch, part of me relaxes, evidence
Speaker 1: of us, proof that he carries me somewhere, even if
Speaker 1: it's only in his gym bag. That night, I wake
Speaker 1: and find Nate's side of the bed empty. A shaft
Speaker 1: of hallway lights spills under the door. Quiet as possible,
Speaker 1: I slip out and peek. He's in the living room,
Speaker 1: bent over his phone, thumb flying, face lit, goastly blue.
Speaker 1: I ease back, careful not to make a sound. A
Speaker 1: hot rock of fear burning low in my gut. On Sunday,
Speaker 1: Rachel comes by to swap paint samples for a hallway
Speaker 1: spruce up. She hovers in the kitchen, SIPs her tea.
Speaker 1: Finally says, been meaning to ask everything all right, you've
Speaker 1: been tense lately. I laugh it off, but my hands shake.
Speaker 1: Maybe just allergy season. Nate's busier than usual. I barely
Speaker 1: see him. She watches me for a long second, the
Speaker 1: surface humor gone. He's not. She leaves the sentence open.
Speaker 1: I shake my head quickly. No, he's just obsessed with
Speaker 1: the mural volunteers. I think he's stressed. I try to
Speaker 1: believe it as I say it. When she leaves, she
Speaker 1: hugs me tight text if you need to talk tea
Speaker 1: for real. After she goes, I stand in the kitchen,
Speaker 1: realizing I don't remember when I last unspooled my own
Speaker 1: day to any one, Nate included. Monday, I take a
Speaker 1: call with a new client at the park, sketch book
Speaker 1: balanced on my knees, my eyes keep drifting to a
Speaker 1: circle of volunteers, where Leela, in bright leggings, chats animatedly.
Speaker 1: Nates among them, half turned away, arms crossed. When he
Speaker 1: finally looks up and sees me, his face rearranges in
Speaker 1: a blink, open, surprised, then quick to wave before turning
Speaker 1: back to the group. Later, while packing up, I pass
Speaker 1: Leela chatting with another volunteer, her voice low and confidential.
Speaker 1: I catch only a scrap. He says, it's complicated at home.
Speaker 1: The other woman nods glancing in my direction, then away.
Speaker 1: I press on, but the phrase lodges in my mind
Speaker 1: like a sliver. That evening, I broach it carefully, with
Speaker 1: more hope than accusation. Think we could do dinner with
Speaker 1: justice some time. It feels like we're both ships passing
Speaker 1: in the night. He closes his laptop, eyes tired. Sorry,
Speaker 1: I know murl's been eaten my life. After the unveiling promise,
Speaker 1: I'm yours again. I want to believe him, the man
Speaker 1: making promises, not the one hiding his phone when I
Speaker 1: come near. But the ease between us is gone, replaced
Speaker 1: by a faint, ever present static. Waking up early Thursday,
Speaker 1: I decide to surprise him. I brew his favorite coffee
Speaker 1: slice oranges the way he likes. When he stumbles into
Speaker 1: the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, he looks startled, almost guilty.
Speaker 1: I was going to run early to day schedules packed,
Speaker 1: he says, glancing at the time. Run later with me,
Speaker 1: I offer voice, hopeful I miss our trail. After a beat,
Speaker 1: he nods, yeah, I'll make it work. But that evening,
Speaker 1: he texts me at five, buried at work, rain check
Speaker 1: on the run. I smile at the phone, knowing it's
Speaker 1: a lie, but unsure what to do with the knowledge. Later,
Speaker 1: while folding towels, I find a slip of scrap paper
Speaker 1: from Cafe Claimington in his shorts. On it a doodle
Speaker 1: of two stick figures running, one labeled N one L,
Speaker 1: both wearing what looks unmistakably like matching hats. Friday afternoon,
Speaker 1: at the Mural rehearsal, I volunteer to help with set up.
Speaker 1: When I arrive, Leelah is directing a few people, clip
Speaker 1: board in hand, laughter, carrying over the crowd. Nate is
Speaker 1: at her side, holding a ladder steady as she marks
Speaker 1: a corner with knon tape. She beams at me, waving tiera,
Speaker 1: Come see what Nate pulled off with these color swatches.
Speaker 1: He's a genius. Nate looks up plastering on that breezy
Speaker 1: neutral smile. Hey, glad you could make it. There's a moment,
Speaker 1: a tiny hesitation as Leela touches Nate's arm when she
Speaker 1: gestures at a segment of the wall, her hand lingering
Speaker 1: just a fraction too long. Nate tenses then steps back,
Speaker 1: awareness flicking between us. After the volunteers disperse, I gather
Speaker 1: paint trays near the car Leela's laughter calls across the
Speaker 1: parking lot. Nick, don't let me forget the doughnuts. To morrow,
Speaker 1: early birds treat right, He flashes her a salute. On
Speaker 1: the drive home, silence settles between us. I roll down
Speaker 1: the window, letting the wind and the city's faint heart
Speaker 1: beat fill gaps. Neither of us wants to cross. At home,
Speaker 1: I try one last bid for connection. Shall we open
Speaker 1: that bottle we've been saving? It's been a week, he hesitates,
Speaker 1: glancing at a notification lighting up his phone. Headache, Babe,
Speaker 1: can we do movie night to morrow? I swallow down
Speaker 1: my exasperation, nod, pour myself a glass and drink it
Speaker 1: alone on the back steps. The bottle is sour midway through,
Speaker 1: but I finish it anyway, the sky swimming above my head,
Speaker 1: full of clouds streaking the oustin night. Saturday morning, I
Speaker 1: wake early, determined to get answers. Nate's side of the
Speaker 1: bed is cold. I dress quietly and go downstairs, only
Speaker 1: to find the garage door closing. Just as I reach
Speaker 1: the bottom step through the window, I glimpse his car
Speaker 1: turning out of the drive, headlights bright in the dawn.
Speaker 1: For a moment I consider driving after him. Instead, I
Speaker 1: walk the green Belt trail alone, shoes pounding out my
Speaker 1: indecision against packed dirt and dew wet grass. Later that afternoon,
Speaker 1: I gather the nerve to look through his calendar again.
Speaker 1: Shared appointments with property committee, park run, and a few
Speaker 1: blocks simply labeled meeting off site. I compare them to
Speaker 1: the mural group's social posts. Photos of Nate and Leela
Speaker 1: at the park time stamps overlapping with his work meetings.
Speaker 1: That evening, Nate gets home, freshly showered, hair damp. I
Speaker 1: force the conversation. You smell nice new cologne. He nods,
Speaker 1: almost impatient gift from Ben. I think parks get musty
Speaker 1: in spring. He's never been gifted cologne in the time
Speaker 1: I've known him. Let alone by Ben, I let the
Speaker 1: lie settle. On Sunday, Rachel and I meet for lunch,
Speaker 1: her treat at a small taco place down the street.
Speaker 1: I find myself unraveling, slicing through my own careful silence.
Speaker 1: She listens, frowning tea. I'm not saying it is, but
Speaker 1: sometimes people get close in those groups, especially running together.
Speaker 1: My ex got way too into his cycling crew. For
Speaker 1: a while, constantly on their group chat planning trips, always
Speaker 1: a new inside joke. It didn't mean he was cheating,
Speaker 1: but she shrugs, you know Nate better than any one.
Speaker 1: I nod. But I think of Leela, the way her
Speaker 1: hand found Nate's arm, of that flier in his bag,
Speaker 1: of all the small lies that keep stacking. Rachel checks
Speaker 1: her phone. Honestly, I did hear Leela joke about having
Speaker 1: a partner in crime. I thought she meant some one else.
Speaker 1: But do you want me to ask around? No, I say, surprise,
Speaker 1: rising myself with the fierceness in my voice. If it's nothing,
Speaker 1: I'm making a fool of myself. And if it's something,
Speaker 1: I don't want to hear it third hand. She nods
Speaker 1: that careful friends nod and we change the subject. When
Speaker 1: I get home, I sit in the foyer shuffling mail,
Speaker 1: listening to Nate in the next room on what sounds
Speaker 1: like a business call. After he pokes his head out, says, hey,
Speaker 1: I've got to catch up on these proposals. You want
Speaker 1: to order something for dinner? Sure, I say, not, trusting
Speaker 1: my voice. After dinner, I clean up alone, my hands
Speaker 1: moving on autopilot the weight of things unsaid, pressing on
Speaker 1: my shoulder blades. On Monday, while cross checking my design
Speaker 1: invoices online, I impulsively log into the cloud account tied
Speaker 1: to our neighborhood association. In the Spring Projects folder, I
Speaker 1: stumble into an album labeled Sunrise Runners. I click on thumbnails.
Speaker 1: Shot after shot of Nate and Leela Son haloing their heads,
Speaker 1: sometimes running side by side, sometimes standing, shoulders barely apart,
Speaker 1: caught mid laugh. One close up stands out Nate and
Speaker 1: Leelah wearing their matching love local hats, her hands splayed
Speaker 1: against his bicep as they mug for the camera. There's
Speaker 1: another sneakily snapped of him dunking a doughnut in her
Speaker 1: coffee cup, the two grinning, blissfully unaware. I study their faces,
Speaker 1: the lines of comfort and pleasure so obvious they break
Speaker 1: me open. My mouth goes dry. I click through the rest,
Speaker 1: resisting the urge to download them. I close the laptop,
Speaker 1: taking deep breaths, hands shaking in the mirror near the stairs.
Speaker 1: The woman looking back at me is tired, dark circles,
Speaker 1: hair back in a hasty twist, eyes haunted. I try
Speaker 1: to shake it off, but the ache returns. Nate comes
Speaker 1: home late, apologizing for missing dinner, moving through the house
Speaker 1: as if apologizing to the air. Leelah posts story the
Speaker 1: next morning, footage of the mural team a pan across
Speaker 1: the half finished wall. Her caption reads community where you
Speaker 1: find your true tribe. Nate's tagged. I text Vivian. I
Speaker 1: think he's lying about something. I don't know if it's
Speaker 1: an affair or if I'm losing it. She calls, her
Speaker 1: voice gentle but scared for me. You need to talk
Speaker 1: to him, Tea, even if you just put your fears
Speaker 1: out loud, I tell her I will. I don't. Instead,
Speaker 1: I spend the next night tallying facts, listing lies and
Speaker 1: half truths. I try not to let paranoia eclipse my
Speaker 1: good sense. But when you can't trust the ground beneath
Speaker 1: your feet, even the steady moments seems suspect. The next morning,
Speaker 1: I watch from the kitchen while Nate packs a fresh
Speaker 1: change of clothes in his jim bag. No run to day, right,
Speaker 1: I ask, trying to sound casual. He jolts, then recovers smiles.
Speaker 1: Meeting with city grant committee before work, might go for
Speaker 1: a run if there's time, helps me think, I nod,
Speaker 1: reminding myself to check the calendar when he leaves lunch hour.
Speaker 1: I call his agency's front desk. Is Nate there? I'm
Speaker 1: trying to reach him about a proposal. A young sounding
Speaker 1: receptionist hesitates. Nate's actually out on a volunteer site. Visit
Speaker 1: right now with Leelah and a couple others. Can I
Speaker 1: take a message? Something cold steals through me. No thanks,
Speaker 1: I'll try later. I hang up, heart pounding, world narrowing
Speaker 1: to a single point of certainty. I look through his
Speaker 1: shared calendar again. Client Pitch eleven, dashed twelve, the block
Speaker 1: he's supposed to be at the office for. He comes
Speaker 1: home early, humming through the door, hair wind blown, cheeks
Speaker 1: faintly flushed. There's a lightness about him, a happiness that's
Speaker 1: nowhere in our last month together. That night, after cleaning up,
Speaker 1: I try again. How s Leela. She seems to be
Speaker 1: running the show, He snorts, She's just extra. There's always
Speaker 1: one person in these groups. Honestly, you get bored at
Speaker 1: half these meetings. I muster my courage. You're not seeing
Speaker 1: her outside the mural stuff, right, He freezes, then his
Speaker 1: hands busy themselves stacking mail, folding a dish towel. Is
Speaker 1: this about the cafe thing again? I told you it's
Speaker 1: not just us. Sometimes she's there, sometimes Ben or others
Speaker 1: from the crew. It's totally above board. I wish you
Speaker 1: deed trust me te He meets my gaze, and for
Speaker 1: a flicker he looks hurt, genuinely hurt. I back off,
Speaker 1: doubt gnawing. Maybe I'm spinning something out of control. Maybe
Speaker 1: he really is just overworked, tied to a group of
Speaker 1: bubbly personalities who see him as the reliable guy, the anchor.
Speaker 1: Maybe I'm haunted by a loneliness of my own making.
Speaker 1: For a few days, things look up. Nate comes home early,
Speaker 1: does the dishes without being asked, comments on a new
Speaker 1: design mock up for a client, as if we're back
Speaker 1: to being team mates. He even suggests an evening walk.
Speaker 1: Are hands in pockets, silhouettes long in the golden hour.
Speaker 1: It's almost peaceful, the old rhythm returning. I let my
Speaker 1: suspicions drift to the edge where memory fades, scolding myself
Speaker 1: for letting uncertainty poison my faith in him. But then
Speaker 1: on Saturday, the mural unveiling the park bustles families, food trucks, music, speeches.
Speaker 1: Nate is busy everywhere at once, laughing with volunteers, handing
Speaker 1: out paint kits to kids, mugging for photos. Near the
Speaker 1: event's end, I catch sight of him and Leela by
Speaker 1: the far lot, away from the crowd. She's perched on
Speaker 1: the hood of his car, legs swinging, gesturing animatedly. He
Speaker 1: stands close, head ducked in as she leans forward. Their
Speaker 1: laughter is easy, private. She reaches into her tote and
Speaker 1: hands him something small, their fingers brushing, lingering, He slips
Speaker 1: the item, a folded note, quickly into his pocket. She winks,
Speaker 1: glances around, and hops off the car, heading back towards
Speaker 1: the crowd. Nate follows more slowly, face shuddered. At home,
Speaker 1: he's electric, high on adrenaline, talking fast about the turn out,
Speaker 1: the number of donations, barely breathing. I sit quietly, listening,
Speaker 1: feeling like an extra in a scene staged for some
Speaker 1: one else. After dinner, he claims exhaustion, puts on headphones
Speaker 1: and stretches on the couch, eyes closed, letting music pin
Speaker 1: him safely out of reach. I don't bother him. I
Speaker 1: gather up the kitchen lock up and find the house
Speaker 1: suddenly too big. In his Jene's pocket, left on a hook,
Speaker 1: as if inviting investigation. I discover the note, a printed
Speaker 1: flier from the event, but inside hand written in blocky script.
Speaker 1: You crushed it to day, Nick can't wait for the
Speaker 1: next adventure secret missions soon el. I sit on the stairs,
Speaker 1: the slip of paper trembling in my fingers, and try
Speaker 1: to remember how to breathe. My phone vibrates a message
Speaker 1: from Rachel. You okay, saw you duck out early? Here
Speaker 1: if you need an ear. I stare at Nate's shadow,
Speaker 1: etched against the wall by TV light, wondering if I'll
Speaker 1: ever find my way back to the person who used
Speaker 1: to trust her own instincts. Upstairs, I curl in bed,
Speaker 1: the stray note pressed beneath my palm, pulse thrumming in
Speaker 1: my ears, mind caught between grief and the impossible urge
Speaker 1: to ask him everything, risking the last shreds of us
Speaker 1: if I don't like the answer. The note rests under
Speaker 1: my palm all night, a small treacherous fold of paper.
Speaker 1: Simultaneously nothing and everything. I get almost no sleep. I
Speaker 1: keep imagining every moment I almost asked, every instance I
Speaker 1: pressed for more, and let his answers, careful and plausible,
Speaker 1: lull me into silence. Now this her handwriting, that grinning
Speaker 1: wink at secret missions. My mind cycles through possibilities faster
Speaker 1: than my pulse. It's not just in my head. At
Speaker 1: some point, I slip downstairs and sit with the note
Speaker 1: under the harsh kitchen light, the distant hum of the fridge,
Speaker 1: both grounding and unreal. I'm equal parts cold and hot,
Speaker 1: frantic and resigned. When Nate shuffles down at dawn, bleary eyed,
Speaker 1: hair rumpled, I move quickly, folding the note into my
Speaker 1: hoodie pocket, spinning the smoothie blender so he won't hear
Speaker 1: the catch in my breath. His good mood from the
Speaker 1: mural unveiling has faded into a worn, practiced neutrality. I
Speaker 1: pretend to yawn when he asks if I slept all right.
Speaker 1: I mutter didn't really. He leans in for a peck
Speaker 1: on the temple, and his lips are too cold. My
Speaker 1: mind stutters at the contact, wondering where he's been. He showers,
Speaker 1: then lingers in the bathroom, replying to messages, his laughter
Speaker 1: leaking faintly through the door. Moments later, he emerges phone
Speaker 1: in hand, thumbs still working and catching my eye says
Speaker 1: work stuff, sorry, mondays are just He trails off, looking away,
Speaker 1: then throws his bag over his shoulder. Already late, I
Speaker 1: trail after him onto the porch, watching him recede. The
Speaker 1: note's weight is a stone in my pocket. I want
Speaker 1: a scream, to press him, to demand his stay, but
Speaker 1: all I manage is a small rasped Have a good day.
Speaker 1: He pauses, glances back, squints at the sun just breaching
Speaker 1: the neighbor's roof line. You too, he calls, voice clipped.
Speaker 1: Then he's gone. I walk the house like a ghost,
Speaker 1: pausing in every room. I count the ways our routines
Speaker 1: have grown ragged, The way his mug is always in
Speaker 1: the sink, never rinsed, The way the plants near the
Speaker 1: breakfast nook have slowly died from neglect care he used
Speaker 1: to lavish on them, replaced by something else. I touch
Speaker 1: my own face, feeling older. His backpack, usually flung in
Speaker 1: the corner, is gone. He started taking it with him,
Speaker 1: even on days when all he'll need is a laptop
Speaker 1: and half an energy bar. I stare at the spot
Speaker 1: where it used to slump, feeling foolish, for how much
Speaker 1: I miss even its mess. My phone pings, Vivian checking
Speaker 1: in again, thinking of you call if you want to
Speaker 1: walk or vent? I type out a reply, delete, retype,
Speaker 1: delete again. What's left to say? I sink onto the couch,
Speaker 1: note still in hand, and finally let myself cry. Jaw
Speaker 1: clenched so it's almost silent, though the grief crawls up
Speaker 1: and out in waves. Later, I try to channel the
Speaker 1: anxious energy into work. I have an install to prep
Speaker 1: for a breakfast nook in one of those endless new
Speaker 1: builds across the highway. Everything I touch feels off wrong. Swatch,
Speaker 1: crooked ruler, a spill of tea down one of my
Speaker 1: sample boards. My mind replays the images from the album,
Speaker 1: Nate laughing with Leela, secrets billowing between them in plain sight.
Speaker 1: I check his calendar again. Park Run group debrief five
Speaker 1: p m. Reads to night's final block. I can't tell
Speaker 1: if it's real or a smoke screen. I debate driving
Speaker 1: by the park to see for myself, but shame keeps
Speaker 1: me parked at home, listening to the dog wine at
Speaker 1: the door for attention. I have none left to give.
Speaker 1: When Rachel texts that afternoon still O k T. I
Speaker 1: nearly tell her everything, but all I send is a
Speaker 1: heart emoji. I can't bear to voice it, make it real,
Speaker 1: before I have proof, or before I've fully decided what
Speaker 1: having proof would even mean. Around dinner, I pour myself
Speaker 1: a glass of wine. I try to eat, but the
Speaker 1: food feels heavy, metallic. My mind keeps rolling over the
Speaker 1: last time Nate and I mapped out one of our
Speaker 1: morning runs, his hand tracing roots on my thigh, laughter,
Speaker 1: doubling us over when he lost the GPS signal, and
Speaker 1: we wound up at a dead end, dizzy and out
Speaker 1: of breath. I ache to return to that simple exhaustion,
Speaker 1: that mutual weariness, not born of worry. Nate texts at
Speaker 1: six twenty running late, debrief, ran long, grabbing dinner at
Speaker 1: the park. Don't wait up. I study the message, looking
Speaker 1: for stray clues, then toss the phone across the bed.
Speaker 1: I sit in the silence that comes after, dense as
Speaker 1: a storm cloud. By nine thirty, he isn't home. I
Speaker 1: try his phone. It rings, then straight to voice mail.
Speaker 1: I clench the flier from Leela, crumpling it, smoothing it
Speaker 1: again until the ink blurs. I steel myself I have
Speaker 1: to know for real, not just the scraps any more.
Speaker 1: The next morning, a strange numbness takes over. I message
Speaker 1: his agency, not as his wife, but as a dummy client,
Speaker 1: asking to confirm a consultation. Nate's not available until noon.
Speaker 1: He's leading a volunteer session. The reply comes from the
Speaker 1: agency co ordinator. By lunch, I've made up my mind
Speaker 1: not just to catch him in a lie, but to
Speaker 1: force the truth into the open, however ugly. Twenty minutes later,
Speaker 1: I'm standing at the entrance to Zilka Park, some beating down,
Speaker 1: I scanning the distant heart hammering. I spot him among
Speaker 1: a huddle of volunteers, shirts splattered with paint, a streak
Speaker 1: of color in his hair, laughing with Leelah, whose hand
Speaker 1: is on his shoulder. My breath catches at the intimacy,
Speaker 1: easy ingrained unnoticed by any one else. They split off,
Speaker 1: walking together toward the parking lot. I slink behind the
Speaker 1: concession stand, heart in my throat, willing myself to keep
Speaker 1: moving forward. I catch snippets, so glad you're doing this
Speaker 1: with me. Leela's voice floats. Nate's response is nearly lost
Speaker 1: in the breeze. Wouldn't have made it through this year
Speaker 1: without you, honestly. When they reach his car, he opens
Speaker 1: the trunk and pulls out a fresh mural kit. She
Speaker 1: leans into him, whispering something, and they both laugh, faces
Speaker 1: close enough to brush her hand lingers on his lower back.
Speaker 1: He lets it. I step out from my cover, not
Speaker 1: caring any more about plausibility or politeness. I call his name,
Speaker 1: voice unsteady, but shark upper than I want both turn.
Speaker 1: Leela's smile falters first. Nate's face freezes, then swings between
Speaker 1: surprise and a mask of forced calm. Hey, what's going on?
Speaker 1: I say, no warmth left. He stumbles over a response
Speaker 1: tiera Hey, I thought you had a meeting. He's grabbing
Speaker 1: at normalcy. My gaze is locked on their hands, close
Speaker 1: but not quite touching now. Didn't feel up to it.
Speaker 1: Thought i'd come see how things were going. And I
Speaker 1: pulled the note from my pocket, unfolding it slowly like
Speaker 1: an accusation. This was in your genes, Leela? Should I
Speaker 1: know about the secret mission? Her cheeks flush, color flooding
Speaker 1: to the tips of her ears. She stutters, it was
Speaker 1: just a joke. We're always planning new projects, you know,
Speaker 1: group stuff. She shoots a desperate glance at Nate, who
Speaker 1: is now staring at the ground, lips pressed tight. I
Speaker 1: push past her, my voice trembling, loud enough for them both,
Speaker 1: but too brittle comfort. Are you sleeping with her? The
Speaker 1: question splits the air. Nate's jaw titans TIERA. Can we
Speaker 1: please not do this here? I don't care who hears
Speaker 1: I say. I want the truth right here, right now.
Speaker 1: Leela backs away, melting into the crowd. Her spine ramrods straight.
Speaker 1: It's down to just Nate and me. No more group,
Speaker 1: no more buffer. He sighs, pulls his hands into his
Speaker 1: coat pockets. It wasn't supposed to be this way, he says,
Speaker 1: voice small. It was supposed to be nothing. Is it nothing?
Speaker 1: My voice breaks in two places, his lips move. He's
Speaker 1: reaching for a script, the one that protects him, but
Speaker 1: finds nothing left. We started running together after the last
Speaker 1: big project. Things at home were He waves a hand
Speaker 1: as if brushing off dust. You pulled away. I pulled away.
Speaker 1: The morning's turned into more and then I didn't want
Speaker 1: to hurt you, but I didn't want to stop. That's
Speaker 1: not an answer. I pressed the note into his palm,
Speaker 1: hard enough to leave a dent. Did you sleep with her?
Speaker 1: He can't look at me. Yes, he says the word
Speaker 1: a single stone thrown into a pond. It wasn't just
Speaker 1: one night. It was I don't know. I didn't want
Speaker 1: to lose you, but a part of me was lost already.
Speaker 1: The world goes silent. I scan his face for regret, forgiveness, arrogance,
Speaker 1: anything to anchor myself. All I see is fear, fatigue,
Speaker 1: the vestiges of a secret that's been dragged into daylight.
Speaker 1: My voice sounds unlike me. Go home, Nate, pack a bag.
Speaker 1: I need to breathe. I'm sorry, he whispers. I can't
Speaker 1: bear another apology. I turn and walk away, not bothering
Speaker 1: to look back at Leela's silhouette hovering at the park's edge.
Speaker 1: I drive home on autopilot, the world both in high
Speaker 1: definition and oddly distant, every stoplight too bright, every radio
Speaker 1: song suddenly insipid and fall. At the house, I moved
Speaker 1: through the kitchen, living room, our shared bedroom, each space
Speaker 1: collapsing into a new strangeness. I pack a bag of
Speaker 1: his basic things, setting them by the front door. I
Speaker 1: text Rachel. My hand's barely steady. It's over. Can you
Speaker 1: come over, she replies instantly, on my way, I love you.
Speaker 1: Nate arrives thirty minutes later. The silence between us is total.
Speaker 1: He looks at the bag, at me, at the walls
Speaker 1: we painted together just a year ago. I'll I'll stay
Speaker 1: with Ben, he says quietly. I don't answer right away. Instead,
Speaker 1: I follow him to the door. He hesitates, as if
Speaker 1: hoping for clemency, for some sign that this isn't final.
Speaker 1: I shake my head. We'll need to talk, not now.
Speaker 1: I need air. I need you out. He nods, picking
Speaker 1: up his things. I really am sorry, he says again,
Speaker 1: voice stripped bare. I close the door behind him, pressing
Speaker 1: my forehead to the wood. Rachel arrives fifteen minutes later,
Speaker 1: with paper bags of takeout and a bottle of wine.
Speaker 1: She doesn't ask questions. I don't think I could answer them.
Speaker 1: She just sits beside me on the living room floor, wordless,
Speaker 1: letting the clock run. Eventually, she gives me a hug,
Speaker 1: murmurs I've got you, and I believe her, if only
Speaker 1: for the space of the embrace. After she leaves, I
Speaker 1: gather up photos and mementos, wedding prints, travel magnets the
Speaker 1: photo booth, strip from his bag and box them one
Speaker 1: by one, stacking them on a high shelf. The space
Speaker 1: feels emptier, but also lighter, as though breathing is possible
Speaker 1: for the first time in weeks. That night, the house
Speaker 1: is mine, mine, and the quiet. Two days later, Nate
Speaker 1: texts about the dog, the water bill, his mail. I
Speaker 1: answer only what's necessary, mechanical and formal. The shape of
Speaker 1: our life is shifting. Every routine knocked to skew. Friends
Speaker 1: begin to text, not sure what to say, offering versions
Speaker 1: of here if you need anything, Vivian messages, come stay
Speaker 1: with me anytime. I type, thanks, meaning it, but right
Speaker 1: now I need my own air more. On the third morning,
Speaker 1: I wake before dawn. The house is silent, shadowed, but
Speaker 1: warmer than it's been in a long time. I tie
Speaker 1: on my sneakers and stand on the porch, hands shaking
Speaker 1: as I not the laces ritual and necessity. The horizon
Speaker 1: is barely pink, the world waiting. My phone buzzies Rachel,
Speaker 1: you can do this. I'm proud of you. I let
Speaker 1: the screen go dark, fingers tight on the rail. The
Speaker 1: seat beside me empty now casts a narrow shadow across
Speaker 1: the wood planks. I breathe in, sharp as ice, the
Speaker 1: air filling lungs unused to so much space. I step out,
Speaker 1: crossing the quiet lawn, finding the trailhead alone for the
Speaker 1: first time in years. I pause just long enough to
Speaker 1: settle my heartbeat. Shoes planted square in the dew, I
Speaker 1: start forward, the root unfamiliar but my own, every stepper
Speaker 1: letting go and an opening all at once. I'm running,
Speaker 1: lungs tight in the morning, chill, gravel scuffing under foot,
Speaker 1: the world washed clean and emptied. I don't look back
Speaker 1: at the house. Each stride is a small rebellion, each
Speaker 1: inhalation proof that I am still present, weight and ache,
Speaker 1: and all. The pinch of cold across my face makes
Speaker 1: me feel alert for the first time in days. My
Speaker 1: body's memory carries me down the green belt, past the creek,
Speaker 1: through the old routine, but now unaccompanied, a private loop.
Speaker 1: The ache is there, ghost like beside me, but so
Speaker 1: is a strange clarity. Where before there were two sets
Speaker 1: of footprints in the dew, now it's just mine at home.
Speaker 1: The quiet is sharper, broken only by the click of
Speaker 1: the dog's nails on wood, and the muted buzz of
Speaker 1: my phone, a handful of unread messages, sympathy bandaged offers
Speaker 1: anything you need from Ben, quiet checkins from Vivian, A
Speaker 1: single line from Nate. Let me know about the dog
Speaker 1: this week. I feed the dog, take a too hot shower,
Speaker 1: Let the water burn the lingering adrenaline off my skin.
Speaker 1: When I see my own face in the steamed mirror,
Speaker 1: raw but not unrecognizable, I think it's not the disaster,
Speaker 1: but the aftermath that's hardest to look at. Nate's absence
Speaker 1: is everywhere, his keys not tossed in the bowl, his
Speaker 1: shoes not haphazardly blocking the closet, And as I moved
Speaker 1: through the rooms, the house feels less accusing than I expected,
Speaker 1: more waiting. I open a window, let air chase out
Speaker 1: the heavy scent of the last few nights. My office
Speaker 1: cluttered in a little stale draws me, client emails blinking
Speaker 1: on the laptop, swatches piled in angles. I force myself
Speaker 1: to answer three before my focus snaps. But it's something.
Speaker 1: By noon, my body aches from tension I barely noticed
Speaker 1: I was holding. I tried distraction, a trip to the nursery,
Speaker 1: small errands, the unremarkable tasks of life resuming out of necessity.
Speaker 1: It's only once, standing in the line at the hardware
Speaker 1: store that I catch a glimpse of a mural kit display,
Speaker 1: and my chest caves in. I grip the counter, steadying myself,
Speaker 1: nodding politely. When the cashier asks if I have any
Speaker 1: week end plans, just work, I say, voice steadier than
Speaker 1: I feel outside. A blast of heat and the ordinary
Speaker 1: bustle of people going about their errands snaps me back.
Speaker 1: My phone chirps again, a group text from the park volunteers,
Speaker 1: now missing both me and Nate from the thread. Some
Speaker 1: one else has picked up the mural's maintenance with cheery
Speaker 1: photos and wish you too were here comments. I swipe
Speaker 1: the thread away, not ready to confront the echo of
Speaker 1: their new normal. Late that afternoon, I'm back on the porch, listless.
Speaker 1: Rachel drops by again, this time bringing a little box
Speaker 1: of painted ceramic tiles, a project for your kitchen. When
Speaker 1: you're ready, she says. We sit side by side, knees touching,
Speaker 1: and she doesn't press for details. She updates me on
Speaker 1: trivia night, a neighbor's failed garden. The small gossip of
Speaker 1: week ends when she leaves, She hugs me harder, and
Speaker 1: I realize, oddly, not everything has been swept away, just rearranged, recolored.
Speaker 1: By the evening, my pulse lands in a low, persistent thump, fatigue,
Speaker 1: but also the aftershock of decision. Nate hasn't called, but
Speaker 1: there's a voicemail, his voice low, measured, as if he's
Speaker 1: reading from a script. Hey, tea, just checking logistics. I'll
Speaker 1: come by for the rest of my stuff Thursday. Let
Speaker 1: me know if you want to be here or not.
Speaker 1: I'm sorry, really sorry. I delete it, fingers trembling, not
Speaker 1: out of spite, but because I can't make space for him,
Speaker 1: just now, not in that raw voice, not in the
Speaker 1: quiet he helped create. That night's sleep is heavy, almost unnatural.
Speaker 1: I wake hours later, surprised by a sense of inertia
Speaker 1: rather than devastation. There's pain, still raw, but muted, not
Speaker 1: the sharp, consuming force of the night before. I lie
Speaker 1: in bed, hands folded over my chest, staring at the
Speaker 1: cracked ceiling, cataloging the way in which grief makes the
Speaker 1: world smaller and larger at once. The next day's unravel
Speaker 1: in bits and pieces, Boxes of Nate's things by the door, Friends,
Speaker 1: stepping lightly, some offering platitudes, others, like Vivian, simply walking
Speaker 1: the neighborhood loop with me in the dusk, quiet, the
Speaker 1: only language either of us needs. For the first time
Speaker 1: in too long, I let myself say out loud the
Speaker 1: simple declarative facts. He lied, he cheated, it hurt. Vivian
Speaker 1: takes my hand, squeezing once, not trying to make it pretty.
Speaker 1: It is what it is. Midweek, Nate comes for his things.
Speaker 1: We do the logistics accounts, scheduling the dog's walks, dividing
Speaker 1: up the last vacation refund. There's no fireworks, just fatigue, resignation,
Speaker 1: a grief that feels almost procedural. When he asks, voice low,
Speaker 1: is this what you want? Tiera? I stare at him
Speaker 1: for a long moment before answering, it's not what I wanted,
Speaker 1: but it's what's left. He nods, wipes at his face,
Speaker 1: and steps over the threshold. After he's gone, a new
Speaker 1: hush blankets the house, different from before. Not absence precisely,
Speaker 1: but an unfamiliar quiet that isn't waiting for any one
Speaker 1: to return. I find a note tucked in the bottom
Speaker 1: of my own jim bag when I must have left
Speaker 1: there at some happier time. An old post it with
Speaker 1: Nate's scribble beat you to the trail. Loser makes pancakes.
Speaker 1: I sit with it a moment, feeling the muscle, memory
Speaker 1: of affection, nostalgia mixing with the fatigue. I gently fold
Speaker 1: the note and place it in the box atop the
Speaker 1: closet shelf. I do not cry. The tears feel spent,
Speaker 1: the ache worked through muscle by mussel. Neighbors wave when
Speaker 1: I walk the dog. There's an initial shyness, as if
Speaker 1: they aren't sure whether to mention what they may have heard.
Speaker 1: Rachel waves, calling to me across the yard, asking if
Speaker 1: I want to join her at the next market. I
Speaker 1: promise her I will. One evening, I sit at the
Speaker 1: kitchen table, sorting through tiles for a new back splash,
Speaker 1: letting the dusty sunlight spill across the worn wood. I
Speaker 1: think about what comes next, payments, paperwork, slow disentangling. There's
Speaker 1: a sort of relief in knowing loss has a process,
Speaker 1: that heartache can be measured, worked through, rebuilt over time.
Speaker 1: A week after that morning, on the porch, I wake
Speaker 1: before dawn again. The bed is empty except for the dog,
Speaker 1: curled at my feet, the world feels less dangerous, or
Speaker 1: maybe just less unknown. I lace up my sneakers, tie
Speaker 1: a double knot, and step outside. The sky isn't bright yet,
Speaker 1: but it's light enough to see the trailhead. I set
Speaker 1: off feat shore pace, steady, each inhalation a small assertion
Speaker 1: that this story is still somehow mine. The porch creaks
Speaker 1: as I return, skin flushed with cold and exertion, lung steady.
Speaker 1: I settle on the steps, not waiting for anyone, not
Speaker 1: hoping for an explanation. Above, the city wakes soft and unhurried.
Speaker 1: There's nothing left to do now but move forward, however uncertain,
Speaker 1: each step leaving its own honest trace in the soft,
Speaker 1: forgiving dirt