Speaker 1: At one twelve in the morning. The city below is
Speaker 1: alive in the way only a city ever is never
Speaker 1: fully asleep, always humming with possibility. Neon still flickering on
Speaker 1: empty sidewalks, music looping somewhere behind concrete and brick. But
Speaker 1: up here inside our place, on the twelfth floor, the
Speaker 1: energy is muted, the walls absorbing all that vibrancy rather
Speaker 1: than reflecting it. I'm on the couch, feet bare against
Speaker 1: the cold tiles, TV dark, just my phone in hand,
Speaker 1: cycling numbly through the same four apps. It feels a
Speaker 1: little pathetic, but I'm half waiting for the sound of
Speaker 1: her key in the door, half pretending like it doesn't
Speaker 1: matter that she's not home. The living room used to
Speaker 1: look inviting at this hour, blanketed in rich blue gray shadows,
Speaker 1: the paintings leaning against every wall, making the place look
Speaker 1: almost curated. Now the space feels hollow, each unfinished canvas,
Speaker 1: a room buke through the dry wall, muffled laughter and
Speaker 1: bass thud from a neighbor's party, people shouting, glasses clinking
Speaker 1: in the hall. There was a time I would have
Speaker 1: pulled on shoes and knocked, But to night, that restless
Speaker 1: energy feels like it belongs to another life. My phone
Speaker 1: vibrates bright in my palm, a message from marrier running late.
Speaker 1: Don't wait up, Sorry, I'll explain in the morning. I
Speaker 1: stare at her words until the screen dims out, thumb
Speaker 1: paused over a reply I don't send. I've seen this
Speaker 1: message before, not the exact phrasing, but the pattern of it,
Speaker 1: the way things have shifted. Six months ago, late nights
Speaker 1: were ours. We'd lean over a big plywood board together,
Speaker 1: smudging paint on each other's arms, talking about color and
Speaker 1: negative space and whether the world even notices what we make.
Speaker 1: If someone was running late. It wasn't alone. We were
Speaker 1: a pair, swept along by whatever creative mania had gripped
Speaker 1: us that week. Now she's somewhere else, and I'm I'm
Speaker 1: left holding a void she doesn't seem to notice. Not
Speaker 1: angry yet not really, but confused, restless, acutely aware of
Speaker 1: how quickly routine becomes rupture. I tell myself it's unfair
Speaker 1: to doubt her, that inspiration keeps strange hours, that any
Speaker 1: artist worth loving gets caught up in the work and
Speaker 1: loses track of time. But the reassurance rings hollow the
Speaker 1: more I repeat it. Why doesn't she want me there
Speaker 1: any more? I set my phone down, turn it face down,
Speaker 1: out of habit. I glance around at the curated mess,
Speaker 1: our books, our art, a glass of Pino Grigiou half
Speaker 1: full next to a water stained coaster. The little things
Speaker 1: that used to feel permanent start to loosen when I
Speaker 1: look at them now. I pour myself the rest of
Speaker 1: the wine and try to sketch on my tablet, but
Speaker 1: I get as far as a few lazy strokes before
Speaker 1: letting the stylus drop. Sometimes waiting feels like creation. To
Speaker 1: night it feels like erosion. It wasn't always like this.
Speaker 1: It can't have always been like this. We met the
Speaker 1: way a lot of people say they meet, but never
Speaker 1: quite mean. We met at a gallery. But it's true.
Speaker 1: Her laugh was too loud for the space. She was
Speaker 1: standing in front of a cluster of distressed panels by
Speaker 1: some kid who just moved in from Berlin, and she
Speaker 1: was arguing, gently but with actual conviction, that the piece
Speaker 1: was more interesting unfinished than anything he could have added.
Speaker 1: I lingered at the edge of the group, pretending to
Speaker 1: stare at a photograph, listening just to hear her knock
Speaker 1: the air around with big, soft confidence. At some point
Speaker 1: she caught me staring. Instead of looking away, she tilted
Speaker 1: her head and asked what I thought. The conversation was
Speaker 1: chaos about what art is supposed to do, where the
Speaker 1: criticism could ever be as generous as creation? If any
Speaker 1: one should ever admit they love a piece rather than
Speaker 1: intellectualizing it into boredom, she challenged me. And I like that.
Speaker 1: I felt seen pulled out of my own head. I
Speaker 1: suppose I fell right. Then we landed eventually in a
Speaker 1: shared sense of ambition. Nothing grandiose, just the feeling that
Speaker 1: what we made and how we thought could latch onto
Speaker 1: something bigger. She invited me for a post jow drink.
Speaker 1: I walked her home. Second date was brunch at a
Speaker 1: bestro that forgot my order but gave us a bottle
Speaker 1: of cheap Carver on the house, and we were tipsy
Speaker 1: and honest at two in the afternoon. We were married
Speaker 1: two years later in a borrowed studio with joint vows
Speaker 1: and a crillick on our hands. From the night before
Speaker 1: our wedding looked like a protest march through the arts district.
Speaker 1: Our friends roasted us over bad karaoke, but you couldn't
Speaker 1: find a single person who doubted we fit. Not then,
Speaker 1: these last five years, we've built a life together among
Speaker 1: constant change. We host dinner parties, long raucous affairs that
Speaker 1: start in the kitchen and spill onto the balcony. Our
Speaker 1: friend group is tight, each with their own projects, gossips
Speaker 1: swirling when someone lands a gallery or screws up an
Speaker 1: artist grant. There's Rowan who can talk for an hour
Speaker 1: about brushwork, Devon who finish everyone's sentences, and b who
Speaker 1: keeps us all grounded with her unfiltered skepticism. Marier and
Speaker 1: I were always the couple who played mediator, the ones
Speaker 1: people would trust with their disasters or triumphs. Not just
Speaker 1: because we were together, but because we made a habit
Speaker 1: of being present. On Friday nights when we didn't want
Speaker 1: a crowd, We'd retreat her favorite wine bar, scribble ideas
Speaker 1: into matching sketch books, make inside jokes about the way
Speaker 1: everyone in the creative world seems mildly unhinged but lovable.
Speaker 1: Our mornings always included coffee from one impossibly stubborn bodega,
Speaker 1: even on the days we had deadlines. I still make
Speaker 1: her espresso the way she likes ridiculously strong, a teaspoon
Speaker 1: of cinnamon dusted on top, a tiny cookie on the
Speaker 1: rim of her mug. Rituals like that I used to
Speaker 1: think made us unbreakable. We cheered each other's successes. She
Speaker 1: pushed me to hang my first solo show when I
Speaker 1: want to stall another year. I would crawl in to
Speaker 1: bed at three am and find her reading over my
Speaker 1: artist's statement with a red pen, leaving small, sharp edits
Speaker 1: that never strung. Because I trusted her. I was in
Speaker 1: her corner, she was in mine. We set it straight
Speaker 1: out in so many small ways. I am proud of you.
Speaker 1: We had arguments, of course, we did, sometimes small, sometimes not.
Speaker 1: The last big one was about whether we were spending
Speaker 1: too much time on separate projects. She landed a residency,
Speaker 1: I was on a commission, and suddenly we were passing
Speaker 1: each other like strangers. It got heated, but fizzled into
Speaker 1: laughter when she dropped cereal all over the kitchen. We
Speaker 1: made fun of ourselves. Later, she texted me Ameme, two
Speaker 1: skeletons working at adjacent laptops, the caption relationship goals for
Speaker 1: creative introverts. For a while, that was all it took
Speaker 1: to patch things up. Our shorthand our private language got
Speaker 1: us through the rough parts. Our friends tell us they
Speaker 1: envy the ease between us, the balance. I want that
Speaker 1: to still be true. My favorite recent memory, the one
Speaker 1: I keep replaying when things feel tense, was a week
Speaker 1: ago when we sprawled on the floor mapping out a
Speaker 1: mural pitch. I'd been stuck, and she took my hand,
Speaker 1: dragged my palm over the mock up, and said, let's
Speaker 1: just do it. Trust the mess, her hand over mine,
Speaker 1: warm paintsmered, confident, sure. In that moment, it felt like
Speaker 1: nothing could go wrong. But to night, I sit alone
Speaker 1: and I have no idea where she is. The next night,
Speaker 1: we attend Rowan's opening at the converted warehouse just east
Speaker 1: of Maine. The whole cruise there, voices echo off the
Speaker 1: concrete paintings hung at odd angles. Music that's trying a
Speaker 1: little too hard to be avant guard, but works because
Speaker 1: of who's there. Maria fits places like this naturally. The
Speaker 1: moment we step in, she's already calling to someone across
Speaker 1: the room, already laughing, already explaining a joke she hasn't
Speaker 1: even finished telling. I lean into a small circle near
Speaker 1: the drink's table, Devon's pouring so kind of spiked cider.
Speaker 1: Be is ranting about minimalist sculpture again, between stories about
Speaker 1: failed residency applications and a gallery in turns crush. Maria
Speaker 1: checks her phone, glances up at me now, and then
Speaker 1: smiling the way she does when she thinks I'm about
Speaker 1: to make fun of her for networking too hard. Half
Speaker 1: Way through, she slips up behind me and whispers that
Speaker 1: she has to run out for a collective meeting, one
Speaker 1: of these impromptu sessions with a new group she's been
Speaker 1: so excited about. Won't be long, I promise, she says, midnight.
Speaker 1: Back at the latest, she presses a kiss to my neck,
Speaker 1: squeezes my hand, and is already out the door before
Speaker 1: I can ask who's leading the meeting. She didn't invite
Speaker 1: me along, didn't mention who's attending. I drift in her absence,
Speaker 1: falling into a conversation about an artist grant I'm considering.
Speaker 1: Devon appears at my elbow an hour later, drink refreshed, tone,
Speaker 1: casual but curious. How's Maria liking all her late nights
Speaker 1: at the collective? Heard she and that artist guy alike? Inseparable.
Speaker 1: Ellis something he's been at every session, right, I pause,
Speaker 1: wine glass half way to my mouth. Ellis, I haven't
Speaker 1: met him yet. She's mentioned new faces, but I don't
Speaker 1: remember any Ellis. Devon shrugs, SIPs. Oh yeah, I thought
Speaker 1: you all worked together on that giant piece for the facade.
Speaker 1: It's mostly singles at those meet ups, isn't it looks
Speaker 1: like a good scene. Her tone is innocent, just a
Speaker 1: bit too off hand. I can already feel the question
Speaker 1: she's not asking. I keep my face neutral, no idea.
Speaker 1: I'm glad she's found a group, though Devon nods unconcerned.
Speaker 1: She turns away, already drawn into a debate about the
Speaker 1: merits of digital collage. But the conversation sticks, and like before,
Speaker 1: I don't have a way to fit this detail into
Speaker 1: the framework of trust that's always felt sturdy. I run
Speaker 1: through the recent weeks, late nights, the explosion of collective projects,
Speaker 1: her insistence on keeping those worlds sep It wouldn't be weird,
Speaker 1: I tell myself. She's always brought new people in and
Speaker 1: out of our shared orbit. But something in Devon's tone
Speaker 1: lodges in my chest. The night drags, I leave early
Speaker 1: barely able to pretend I'm interested in a talk about
Speaker 1: sculpture as protest. On my way home, the streets are
Speaker 1: a little too quiet, the ride's share too slow. When
Speaker 1: I get back, our apartment is exactly as I left it.
Speaker 1: I stretch out on the couch, scrolling feeds that have
Speaker 1: an updated I make excuses for her, reminding myself that
Speaker 1: she's devoted to the work, to possibility, not to secrecy.
Speaker 1: But a pit forms in my stomach. She walks in
Speaker 1: near one thirty, not apologizing, but dropping her bag, pausing
Speaker 1: to lean against the frame and tow off her boots.
Speaker 1: She seems rung out, tired in a way that's more
Speaker 1: like withdrawal than creative euphoria. Sorry it went late, she says,
Speaker 1: not meeting my eyes. I'm exhausted. I try to ask
Speaker 1: about it, to catch a thread of conversation. Was it
Speaker 1: a good session, She offers, a thin smile that never
Speaker 1: reaches her eyes. Yeah, productive, lot of opinions. I just
Speaker 1: need to sleep. We'll talk to morrow. She doesn't wait
Speaker 1: for a reply, just kisses me quick dry, and vanishes
Speaker 1: into the bathroom. In bed, she curls away from me,
Speaker 1: Her breaths long and even before I finish brushing my teeth.
Speaker 1: I stay awake, awhile, staring at the ceiling, listening to
Speaker 1: the city below. I play through every reason I shouldn't care,
Speaker 1: every time we've trusted through busy seasons, every stretch of
Speaker 1: independence that's made us strong. But the feeling lingers. If
Speaker 1: I ask, am I jealous? Or is something actually wrong?
Speaker 1: I don't like either answer. That week, her hours take
Speaker 1: on a distinctly erratic rhythm. There are dinners, skipped lunch plans,
Speaker 1: forgotten texts left on read for hours at a time.
Speaker 1: She runs late in the morning, blaming the collective's project deadlines,
Speaker 1: apologizing as she shrugs into her coat. I find myself
Speaker 1: double checking her calendar, surprised at how little I know
Speaker 1: about her evenings. It unnerves me. The sudden emptiness her
Speaker 1: absence leaves. I try to salvage our routines, proposing a
Speaker 1: quick lunch near her studio. She cancels last minute. Sorry,
Speaker 1: gallery run took longer, ovens still broken, reins killing my brain.
Speaker 1: I tell myself, I believe her. I want to believe her. Normally,
Speaker 1: she texts me photos from whatever lobby arch she discovered,
Speaker 1: or send a quick voice memo with a silly anecdote
Speaker 1: from the group. Lately, her phone is silent or worse,
Speaker 1: full of generic thumbs up reply emojis. The intimacy of
Speaker 1: her messages vanishes, replaced by pragmatic exchange. The next week end,
Speaker 1: our crew meets for brunch at the cafe with the
Speaker 1: wobbly tables and endless Mimosas I arrive first, order us
Speaker 1: both avocado toast, and wait ten minutes late. She arrives,
Speaker 1: hair in a messy bun, wearing a vintage tea I've
Speaker 1: never seen. She seems both present and far away, like
Speaker 1: she's still orbiting whatever conversation she left behind. We fall
Speaker 1: into chatter. Rowan is moving to a new loft, Bees
Speaker 1: debating a trip to Lisbon. Maria's phone is face down
Speaker 1: beside her plate, buzzing every so often. Devon snarks careful
Speaker 1: Marier might get snatched away. Haven't you seen her new shadow?
Speaker 1: Ellis right, that guy's your collective's new mascot. Never seen
Speaker 1: some one so game for late night painting. Maria doesn't flinch,
Speaker 1: but she doesn't volunteer anything either. I can't tell if
Speaker 1: she's annoyed by the attention or just bored. I turned
Speaker 1: to her. Keep my tone even ellis you never mentioned him?
Speaker 1: What's he like? She shrugs, slicing her toast. He's just
Speaker 1: a peer, super talented, really focused on portraiture. His style's wild,
Speaker 1: lot of movement. Anyway, she redirects, devon, didn't you say
Speaker 1: you're curating a new pop up? It's artful the way
Speaker 1: she keeps things j general. We move on, but the
Speaker 1: exchange stings. I glance down at her hands, wondering if
Speaker 1: I'm projecting. Am I supposed to dig or accept her
Speaker 1: answer at face value? Every one has new acquaintances all
Speaker 1: the time. Maybe I'm overstepping. That night, she returns late
Speaker 1: after group, drinks, her breath sweet with gin, her laugh
Speaker 1: softer than usual. She doesn't offer details, just sinks onto
Speaker 1: the couch beside me, stretching her legs over my lap.
Speaker 1: When I try to ask about her night, she closes
Speaker 1: her eyes and says, can we just watch something dumb?
Speaker 1: My brain's fried. I let it slide. Three nights later,
Speaker 1: curiosity wins out. I sit at my laptop staring at
Speaker 1: a collective social feed. The posts are the usual blend
Speaker 1: works in progress. Event invites shots of paint splattered shoes
Speaker 1: and bottles of cheap beer. But then I spot him,
Speaker 1: Ellis tagged in several photos, tall with paint stained hands
Speaker 1: and a geometric hair cut. In each frame, Marriers somewhere
Speaker 1: near by, sometimes leaning over his shoulder, sometimes laughing behind him.
Speaker 1: My stomach churns with an irrational jealousy that I try
Speaker 1: desperately to reason away. I look deeper. Ellis's own feed
Speaker 1: is cryptic, no bio, only scattered images, abstracted cityscapes, candid
Speaker 1: shots of people at bars, and occasional selfie with a
Speaker 1: half hidden smile. And there's Marrier again, a backgrown shadow
Speaker 1: in three separate posts, always in the thick of things,
Speaker 1: sometimes with her head thrown back, eyes sparkling. I close
Speaker 1: my laptop and paced the apartment. I look at our
Speaker 1: joint credit card, an accidental habit picked up from living
Speaker 1: together so long. A few charges stand out, clustered in
Speaker 1: neighborhoods we rarely visit, late night bestros, bottle shops, ride
Speaker 1: chairs at odd hours. I try to ask, without sounding suspicious,
Speaker 1: Hey did you have dinner in riverside? The card flagged
Speaker 1: a bar tab. She barely looks up from her sketch book.
Speaker 1: Oh group went out after the crit I left early,
Speaker 1: but Ellis and a couple others stuck around. Why no reason?
Speaker 1: Just curious. She offers no further detail, and I find
Speaker 1: myself wishing uselessly for the sort of trust that doesn't
Speaker 1: need validation. A week later, determined to put my anxiety
Speaker 1: at rest, I finish work early and amble over to
Speaker 1: her collective studio, telling myself it's spontaneous. I text her
Speaker 1: in the area, thought i'd bring coffee. Minutes stretch before
Speaker 1: she replies, sure, come up. When I enter, she startled
Speaker 1: a little flustered as she introduces me to a tight
Speaker 1: group of three, none of them Ellis. She shuffles papers,
Speaker 1: laugh a little too bright, eyes glancing at her phone
Speaker 1: every couple of minutes. I try to chat about process,
Speaker 1: but her answers feel clipped, barely holding on. We head
Speaker 1: out together, silence stretching between us. She mentions having to
Speaker 1: read through proposals, her tone defensive before I even ask,
Speaker 1: don't worry, I'll be home soon. You're sweet for dropping
Speaker 1: by her gratitude rings hollow practiced that night in bed,
Speaker 1: she keeps her phone angled away, thumb gliding rapidly. I
Speaker 1: hear the faint buzz of notifications, dozens of them. When
Speaker 1: I suggest she unplug for a while, she tenses deadline
Speaker 1: es tomorrow, can't afford to check out. I pretend to
Speaker 1: believe her on Thursday and invite pings in our email.
Speaker 1: The Collectives launching a pop up in a reclaimed gallery
Speaker 1: two weekends from now. I'm excited. These shows can be unpredictable,
Speaker 1: sometimes magical. But that night at dinner, when I say
Speaker 1: I'll put it in my calendar, Marius shakes her head.
Speaker 1: It's mostly technical, honestly, she says, head buried in a salad.
Speaker 1: You be bored out of your mind. Let's do something
Speaker 1: special the next night, just us. I chafe at the exclusion.
Speaker 1: I like boring. I like seeing you work. She flashes
Speaker 1: a quick, rehearsed smile. I just want to keep some
Speaker 1: things mine. Happens with every project. I always bring the
Speaker 1: mess home eventually, trust me, I say always, But the
Speaker 1: words feel weightless. Physical connection shifts. She leans in for hugs,
Speaker 1: but her body's stiff. Kisses, landing distractedly. At night, if
Speaker 1: we have sex, she's present for a few minutes, then
Speaker 1: rushes to the bath room immersing herself in a podcast.
Speaker 1: I chalk it up to pressure. But the old intimacy,
Speaker 1: the whispered jokes, the vulnerable glance at my face afterward
Speaker 1: are missing. We argue more now over the smallest things,
Speaker 1: rent reminders whose turn it is to pick up groceries.
Speaker 1: She favors passive sighs, and I notice my own voice
Speaker 1: gets sharper, defensive over the pettiest slights. Our friend's notice too.
Speaker 1: Rowan asks if I'm sleeping enough be texts late one night?
Speaker 1: You too? Ok? I assure them it's nothing, just the grind,
Speaker 1: creative surges and deadlines and too much coffee. But I'm
Speaker 1: lying to them and to myself. Late one Friday, near
Speaker 1: three in the morning, I wake up to the sound
Speaker 1: of Marya's voice muffled in the living room laughter. Not
Speaker 1: just polite amusement, but that wild, free giggle I used
Speaker 1: to think was reserved for us. When I step into
Speaker 1: the hall, she clicks off the call mid joke. When
Speaker 1: she sees me, she flushes, Sorry, Ellis is being ridiculous.
Speaker 1: We're arguing about a concept for a group portrait. She
Speaker 1: moves to kiss me, quick and dismissive. I try to
Speaker 1: meet her eyes, but her gaze skates away. I wonder,
Speaker 1: not for the first time, what she'd tell me if
Speaker 1: I pushed. Our friends start asking me, not her, if
Speaker 1: everything's all right. It happens casually at drinks during a
Speaker 1: break in figure drawing class. There's something in the air,
Speaker 1: something every one senses but is too polite to say directly.
Speaker 1: I insist we're fine, that relationships have rough seasons. Inside,
Speaker 1: I am not fine. I am living in the quiet
Speaker 1: collapse of shed certainty, wondering exactly what constitutes betrayal. A
Speaker 1: week later, I decide, deliberately, even pridefully, to lean the
Speaker 1: other direction. I bring home her favorite noodles, set up
Speaker 1: candles in the living room, stream the album she always
Speaker 1: requests when she sketches. She comes in later than expected.
Speaker 1: Her hair is damp from rain, I make up smudged
Speaker 1: for a second. She looks like the woman I married,
Speaker 1: exhausted but still shining under the city's haze. We eat
Speaker 1: picnic style floor cushions, forming a makeshift nest. As we eat,
Speaker 1: the tension drops. She laughs at my imitation of Devon's
Speaker 1: gallery schmoozing. She asks about my latest project. Listens, really listens,
Speaker 1: when I ramble, then confides, finally, things have been tough.
Speaker 1: The collective is its tense. People are possessive about credit.
Speaker 1: There's a lot of She waves her fork insecurity. Sometimes
Speaker 1: I just need to disappear a while. I nod, grateful
Speaker 1: for a crumb of honesty. I want to help, if
Speaker 1: you'll let me. She puts her head on my shoulder.
Speaker 1: I know. She stays close through an entire movie. Then
Speaker 1: takes my hand and leads me to bed. That night,
Speaker 1: it feels almost like before her movement softer, kisses, slow,
Speaker 1: She cries quietly in the dark, claims it's just stress.
Speaker 1: I stroke her hair until she sleeps. The next morning,
Speaker 1: as I make coffee, I find her sketch book open
Speaker 1: on the table. The pages are already delicate, water stains
Speaker 1: bleeding the ink. One stands out a series of intimate
Speaker 1: portraits Ellis. There's no mistaking the likeness, the angular jaw,
Speaker 1: the tilt of his head, the sideways glance. Some are
Speaker 1: just quick studies, others more careful. A pair of hands
Speaker 1: held close, eyes half shut, and mouth curved as if
Speaker 1: on the verge of a secret. In one, there's a
Speaker 1: softness in his features. I can't remember her capturing in me.
Speaker 1: My chest constricts. She's never drawn me like that. I
Speaker 1: shut the book before she appears, trying to arrange my
Speaker 1: face into neutrality. Her mood is lighter, oblivious. She makes
Speaker 1: a joke about coffee being the only thing keeping me
Speaker 1: loyal these days. I try to laugh along, but the
Speaker 1: bitterness is sharp. No matter how much I want to
Speaker 1: restore my trust, the image of Ellis, rendered over and
Speaker 1: over in ink and care keeps haunting me. Check her
Speaker 1: social media later in the day, suddenly unable to stop myself.
Speaker 1: It's all there in the comments, flirtatious exchanges between Marrier
Speaker 1: and Ellis, fire emojis, late night replies. The posts echo
Speaker 1: each other, sometimes referencing the same in joke, sometimes trading
Speaker 1: private allusions to works in progress. I go back through
Speaker 1: our messages. See the contrast. She used to send me
Speaker 1: her doubts, her excitement. Now our communication is mostly logistics
Speaker 1: and reminders hers with him all possibility. Devon messages out
Speaker 1: of the blue, Hey weird, but you okay? Saw Marrier
Speaker 1: and Ellis at Etters the other night. They seemed ure close.
Speaker 1: I didn't want to. I ask Devon what she means
Speaker 1: she sounds embarrassed, but doesn't take it back. Just they
Speaker 1: were alone, looked like they'd been there a while. I figured, well,
Speaker 1: maybe artists have their own rules. But I dunno. They
Speaker 1: were laughing, heads close together. Didn't want you to be
Speaker 1: blind sided. If something s going on, I lie, nothing's
Speaker 1: going on. She's just under a lot of pressure. But
Speaker 1: the seed's already taken root. Late that Friday, Maria says
Speaker 1: she's working late again. We have a group show coming up,
Speaker 1: she reminds me, as though that's an answer around one.
Speaker 1: I check find my a habit I hate having, but
Speaker 1: here I am. Her phone shows up at an address
Speaker 1: I don't recognize, north, near a pocket of converted warehouses
Speaker 1: where a few art lofts have sprung up. Not the
Speaker 1: collective space, but a private residence. Ellis's name flickers in
Speaker 1: my mind. She's not home by sunrise. When she does arrive,
Speaker 1: the sky already bright. She's defensive, irritable, throwing her jacket
Speaker 1: over a chair. The project ran late. I texted, you,
Speaker 1: can you not do this right now? Her voice has
Speaker 1: an edge, like I'm the one being unreasonable. I try
Speaker 1: to argue gently but persistently. You said, you'd be home
Speaker 1: after the show. Is everything all right? She rubs her
Speaker 1: temple's eyes red, God, nothing's all right. I'm exhausted. I
Speaker 1: need you to trust me, or I can't do this.
Speaker 1: I stop. There's nothing to be gained by pushing harder.
Speaker 1: This second. She's already slipping away. Three days pass I
Speaker 1: function on autopilot, sleeping, fitfully, existing in the liminal space
Speaker 1: between denial and acceptance. The city outside is bright, the
Speaker 1: art world keeps spinning. I go through the motions of
Speaker 1: show prep, e mails, doggedly, finishing my commission pieces, but
Speaker 1: my mind keeps circling the same questions. A day before
Speaker 1: the Collective show, a message slips into my Instagram d
Speaker 1: MS from an unfamiliar name attached to a proful of
Speaker 1: installation and resin sculptures. Hey, this is awkward, but are
Speaker 1: you okay? Word is marrier and ellis are pretty close.
Speaker 1: Didn't want you to be blindsided. If something's up, sorry,
Speaker 1: if this is out of line, cold resolve slides into place.
Speaker 1: I can't let this go on without clarity. I wait
Speaker 1: until evening, then head toward the Collective's studio. Sure enough,
Speaker 1: in my suspicions that I don't care if I seem paranoid.
Speaker 1: As I arrive, Ellis is outside, leaning against a pillar,
Speaker 1: smoking idly. He looks up at me, recognition flickering. We've
Speaker 1: never spoken before. I hold out my hand. You're Ellis right.
Speaker 1: Marrier's talked about the show a lot. He grins, loose
Speaker 1: and friendly, but his eyes are wary. Yeah, hey, it's
Speaker 1: all been a blur lately. You coming to the pop
Speaker 1: up I might swing by. Sounds like there's a lot
Speaker 1: of talent on the roster. I keep my tone light, nonspecific.
Speaker 1: He shrugs. Yeah, it's shaping up. Marriy has led half
Speaker 1: the projects. She's intense serious. The words are neutral, practiced.
Speaker 1: There's nothing overtly suggestive, and yet the underlying tension is unmistakable.
Speaker 1: I push a little. She's been pouring herself into it.
Speaker 1: Sometimes I hardly see her. His smile falters. The creative
Speaker 1: life right a lot of late nights. I nod. He
Speaker 1: glances away, clearly eager to be somewhere else. The conversation
Speaker 1: dead ends, and I leave before either of us can
Speaker 1: fumble further. That night, Insecurity shifts into resolve. We keep
Speaker 1: a shared desktop in the office mostly used for scanning
Speaker 1: works and storing reference images. I wait until Maria leaves
Speaker 1: her keys to venture out with Devon for a coffee run.
Speaker 1: I slip into the office, heart hammering harder than I can.
Speaker 1: Just of the search is humiliating, but I find what
Speaker 1: I expect in the references folder, a hidden subfolder marked
Speaker 1: stew buried three layers deep. The files inside aren't art
Speaker 1: Their messages exchanged between Marrier and Ellis, Screenshots, snippets of
Speaker 1: flirty banter, half formed inside jokes, even a few photos
Speaker 1: of drinks in his kitchen, a table covered in brushes
Speaker 1: and half eaten take out their hands, barely visible, fingers
Speaker 1: brushed together. Most of the messages aren't explicit, but the
Speaker 1: tone changes, shifting from professional collaboration to something softer, more intimate.
Speaker 1: There are references to secret projects, to private moments of
Speaker 1: creative inspiration. In one exchange, she writes, you're the only
Speaker 1: person who gets this part of me. He replies with
Speaker 1: a joke and a winking emoji, as though it says
Speaker 1: what both mean, but neither wants to articulate. The pain,
Speaker 1: icy and all consuming, makes it hard to breathe. I
Speaker 1: sit at the desk, looking down at a pencil she
Speaker 1: must have left there this afternoon, imagining how many nights
Speaker 1: I've spent alone while she's out making new memories, crafting
Speaker 1: new bonds. When she returns, the apartment is darker than usual,
Speaker 1: she seems lighter, humming a song. I can't place a
Speaker 1: half smile on her lips. As she sets down her bag,
Speaker 1: she glances at me, all affection in her eyes, and
Speaker 1: for a moment I want to ask her to tell
Speaker 1: me everything before I have to demand it. But I don't.
Speaker 1: I can't, not yet. I sit quietly, for some reason,
Speaker 1: picking up the torn sketch book, tracing the edge of
Speaker 1: her portrait of ellis wondering when exactly I stopped being
Speaker 1: the person she painted for the city around us is
Speaker 1: all possibility and brightness. But between these four walls, the truth,
Speaker 1: whatever shape it takes, is closing in most of all
Speaker 1: on me. I rehearse conversations in my head ways. I
Speaker 1: could bring it up soft, careful approaches, stalling out half
Speaker 1: way through sentences. Every version sounds false or too sharp,
Speaker 1: or impossibly childish in the face of what's actually happening.
Speaker 1: I wonder over and over if there's a version of
Speaker 1: this where we sit down, admit the bad stretch and
Speaker 1: agree we love each other enough to fight for it.
Speaker 1: But even my most generous, imagined marrier side steps, puts
Speaker 1: her hands up, shrugs, and says, it's just a rough patch.
Speaker 1: The truth is, I'm not sure we're using the same
Speaker 1: words any more. We say trust, we say inspiration, we
Speaker 1: say love, But inside those words her meanings have drifted
Speaker 1: further from mine than I can admit aloud. I try
Speaker 1: to keep things normal for a few days. Each gesture
Speaker 1: feels weighted, both tender and strained. When I refill her mug,
Speaker 1: when she tosses me her scarf, when we tidy together
Speaker 1: in the morning, silence. But nothing is normal, not now.
Speaker 1: I catch her gazing out the window after breakfast, spinning
Speaker 1: a pencil over her lips, lost in thought. I want
Speaker 1: to ask what she's thinking, but there's a wall up
Speaker 1: between us. She flicks her eyes to her phone so
Speaker 1: often now, quick furtive glances, as though she's living a
Speaker 1: second life just out of reach. Sometimes her thumb hovers
Speaker 1: over something, her expression softening, and then she types deletes
Speaker 1: types again. Friday night, I bring up The Collective's show
Speaker 1: over dinner, timidly, careful not to sound accusatory. I saw
Speaker 1: on your feed they pushed the opening to next month,
Speaker 1: big project. Are you excited? She sets her fork down,
Speaker 1: picks at a nail. Excited, sure, stressed too. We're working
Speaker 1: out the installation plan and it's like herding cats. Ellis
Speaker 1: has ideas, but the others push back. Every one wants
Speaker 1: the space to look perfect. Ellis again, She says his
Speaker 1: name easily, like it doesn't matter. Her shrug is too practiced.
Speaker 1: I ask, is he helping you with your section? She
Speaker 1: glances at me too quick, as if checking my face
Speaker 1: for something more than curiosity. Yeah, he's got experience with
Speaker 1: mural in stalls. He's good at trouble shooting, gets logistics
Speaker 1: I never think of I nod, swirling my wine, trying
Speaker 1: not to focus on her downcast eyes. He sounds useful,
Speaker 1: I say, too, neutrally, don't make that face. Suddenly there's
Speaker 1: a flash in her tone, caught between affection and irritation.
Speaker 1: It's not like that, He's just another artist. Can we
Speaker 1: not make it weird? I raise both palms in surrender.
Speaker 1: She forces a half smile, but her gaze slides away again. Afterwards,
Speaker 1: I linger in the kitchen, long after she's retreated to
Speaker 1: the living room, pretending to check emails, scrolling mindlessly through
Speaker 1: the group chat. The pressure in my chest is only
Speaker 1: getting worse. Saturday, I get out of the apartment early.
Speaker 1: I text Rowan on a whim. He invites me to
Speaker 1: his new space for coffee and idle critiques. When I
Speaker 1: walk in, the first thing that hits me is the
Speaker 1: smell of turpentine and burnt toast. Rowan's studio is chaotic,
Speaker 1: canvases tipped in every corner, boxes stacked music, thrumbing beneath
Speaker 1: it all. He doesn't waste time. You look frazzled, man.
Speaker 1: You and Marrier ever sleep? Or is it all projects
Speaker 1: and punchlines these days? I shrug, not knowing how to
Speaker 1: enter the conversation. I half hope he'll start for me.
Speaker 1: We're fine, she's buried in collective stuff. New guy, the
Speaker 1: one devon mentioned Ellis, seems to be helping out with
Speaker 1: all the heavy lifting. Rowan raises an eyebrow. Ellis, yeah,
Speaker 1: he came through at my last critique. Kind of intense.
Speaker 1: Didn't realize he and Marrier were working closely though, thought
Speaker 1: he was mostly painting solo in his warehouse. He sounds
Speaker 1: curious but not invested. Something inside me aches for more,
Speaker 1: some confirmation. She says he's just good with install stuff.
Speaker 1: There's been a lot. I catch myself unwilling to air
Speaker 1: out suspicion in the open Rowan lets it lie, but
Speaker 1: the silence hangs. He shifts the topic to his new project.
Speaker 1: But the warmth from my morning coffee is gone, replaced
Speaker 1: by a cold drip. Somewhere on my way home, I
Speaker 1: walk past a gallery where the collective's flier is hung
Speaker 1: in a window open studio. Next Friday, Mary's name is
Speaker 1: top build, along with five others, including Ellis. I take
Speaker 1: a photo and send it to her. Saw this proud
Speaker 1: of you? No reply, not even the little scene check mark.
Speaker 1: Hours later, at dinner, the flyer's still the elephant. Neither
Speaker 1: of us acknowledges. We eat in parallel that night, soft
Speaker 1: clatter of utensils, the sound of the city leaking in
Speaker 1: through a sliver of open window. I say, tentatively, I
Speaker 1: might stop by the open studio if that's all right,
Speaker 1: show some support, you know. She freezes fork madeir. You
Speaker 1: really don't have to. It's stressful with everyone's egos out,
Speaker 1: I'd feel like I had to play host. Her voice
Speaker 1: is gentle, almost pleading. I'd rather celebrate with you later,
Speaker 1: away from all that. Something in her tone is genuine,
Speaker 1: but I can't tell if it's relief or anxiety that
Speaker 1: slips through the cracks. I force myself to nod, okay,
Speaker 1: if you're sure. Her smile is grateful and haunted at once.
Speaker 1: That night, as she falls asleep, I lie awake, listening
Speaker 1: to the hum of her breathing, wondering when our lives
Speaker 1: become separate, monologues running in parallel but never intersecting. A
Speaker 1: few nights later, the apartment is full of winter's chill.
Speaker 1: I wrap a blanket around myself and try to draft
Speaker 1: new sketches, but the page stays blank. Marrier emerges from
Speaker 1: her shower, hair slick, towel wrapped and radiant in the
Speaker 1: way she always is post water. She perches on the
Speaker 1: arm of the couch, looking at me. For a moment,
Speaker 1: it almost feels normal. She asks, what are you working on?
Speaker 1: A question she used to ask nightly, full of interest.
Speaker 1: Now it sounds like habit, something performed. I show her
Speaker 1: my clumsy lines, jokes about the world's worst dog portrait,
Speaker 1: but she's only half smiling. She stands, pads over to
Speaker 1: the kitchenette and pours herself a whiskey neat. I watch
Speaker 1: the way her fingers tremble, a twitch so small I
Speaker 1: might have once ignored it. Long day, I try soft,
Speaker 1: She nods. No one can agree on how to handle
Speaker 1: the collaborative piece. Ellis is the only one who seems
Speaker 1: to have a plan, but he's She trails off, staring
Speaker 1: into the liquor. I don't know, he's a lot. I'm
Speaker 1: tired of all the drama. You two at odds or
Speaker 1: working well. A pause. He's not difficult for me, really,
Speaker 1: just every one else. I get where he's coming from.
Speaker 1: Sometimes people hate the same thing for the same reasons.
Speaker 1: There's a sadness there, but I'm not sure if she
Speaker 1: wants comfort or distance. I stand and cross to her,
Speaker 1: meaning to wrap her in an embrace, but she sets
Speaker 1: the glass down and slips away, muttering about deadlines. I
Speaker 1: go to bed before her eyelids leaden, the chill clinging
Speaker 1: to my bones. When I wake hours later, I hear
Speaker 1: her voice again, low and conspiratorial, leaking from behind her
Speaker 1: studio door. She's laughing, that laugh, so free, vulnerable, open.
Speaker 1: She never laughs like that with me any more. I
Speaker 1: stand outside the door for just a second before shame
Speaker 1: pushes me away. The following afternoon, Be drags me out
Speaker 1: for coffee under the guise of critiquing some grant application.
Speaker 1: Half Way through a conversation about Project Budgets, her tone
Speaker 1: goes gentle. I know it's not my place, but Mary
Speaker 1: has disappeared a bit lately, hasn't she you? Okay, I bristle,
Speaker 1: but try to play it off. Yeah, just work. These
Speaker 1: projects take over her brain, happens to all of us.
Speaker 1: Beholds my gaze a second longer than comfort allows. Devon
Speaker 1: said something weird about seeing her with a guy after hours.
Speaker 1: You know about that. I try to pivot. She's working
Speaker 1: a lot with this Ellis person. He seems cool, and besides,
Speaker 1: just don't let pride keep you from asking questions if
Speaker 1: you need to. On my way home, I scroll Maria's
Speaker 1: Instagram again. I notice new exchanges, more fire and deck
Speaker 1: plant emojis, teasing fond, invisible to anyone not looking closely.
Speaker 1: I catch myself counting the hours between their comments, the
Speaker 1: gaps in her messages to me, the overlaps. The evidence
Speaker 1: isn't damning on its own, but together the pattern is unmistakable.
Speaker 1: I don't bring it up, not directly, not yet. One evening,
Speaker 1: it's late and I'm working in the office headphones on.
Speaker 1: Maria swings by with tea for stamina, she says, then
Speaker 1: slips out, calling back in a few I realize, idly
Speaker 1: checking our shared calendar, that she's blocked out collective planning. Again.
Speaker 1: On impulse, I open find my once more, hoping to
Speaker 1: see her at the Corpse studio downtown. Her dot is
Speaker 1: up town, near Eureka Avenue, a stretch with only warehouses
Speaker 1: and lofts, little reason for her to be there on
Speaker 1: her own. I call, aiming for normal. Hey need a
Speaker 1: ride home? Later, she answers voice light, loud music in
Speaker 1: the background. All good, thanks, Ellis and I are in
Speaker 1: deep with wiring. The lights probably stay late, maybe even
Speaker 1: crash here if it runs long. The way she says,
Speaker 1: Ellis and I is off hand, but the clarity stings. Okay,
Speaker 1: let me know if you need anything, She thanks me
Speaker 1: and hangs up. It's almost worse than a lie. The
Speaker 1: truth was too quick That night. I can't work, can't sleep,
Speaker 1: can't even relax enough to zone out with a movie.
Speaker 1: The place is saturated with her, but she isn't here.
Speaker 1: I wonder the apartment, pausing at our tangled coats in
Speaker 1: the hallway, the small sculpture she brought home from a
Speaker 1: trip up state, the notes we used to leave for
Speaker 1: each other by the fridge. At two thirty a m.
Speaker 1: I hear heavy footsteps in the hall, someone heading for
Speaker 1: the elevator. For a wild moment, I consider going out there,
Speaker 1: seeing where she really is, verifying the story for myself.
Speaker 1: But what would that make me? Surveillance isn't trust. Still,
Speaker 1: the urge is nearly overwhelming. When she does come home,
Speaker 1: she's walking on clouds and eggshells at the same time, tipsy,
Speaker 1: quietly humming, face flushed. She slips in beside me, doesn't
Speaker 1: offer a story, and I don't ask. We lie together
Speaker 1: in bed, inches between us as wide as an ocean.
Speaker 1: Sunday rolls around and brings with it more fractured routines.
Speaker 1: She tells me she'll be home for lunch. I plan sandwiches,
Speaker 1: set the table, but noon becomes one then two. She texts, sorry,
Speaker 1: lost track of time, grabbing food with the group. I
Speaker 1: eat alone. Projects abandoned. Later that afternoon, she breezes in,
Speaker 1: apologizing cheeks pink. Ellis had to run out his girlfriend
Speaker 1: bylaid on dinner plans, so we kept working. She says
Speaker 1: it like it's supposed to be reassured, boring, But all
Speaker 1: I hear is the possibility of Ellis folded into every meal,
Speaker 1: every plan, every spare minute she has to give. I
Speaker 1: say nothing, but she notices my silence. She sits opposite me,
Speaker 1: chin propped on her hand, studying my face. Are you angry?
Speaker 1: I shrug, not trusting my voice. No, tired. Maybe her
Speaker 1: gaze softens. It's not you, really, it's not. I get
Speaker 1: tunnel vision when I'm close to finishing something. You know that.
Speaker 1: I do know it, have loved it even but lately
Speaker 1: it feels like she's building something that doesn't have space
Speaker 1: for me at all. That night, she outlines her weak
Speaker 1: itemizing long work days, co op meetings in stalls, pop
Speaker 1: up preps, maybe drinks after with Ellis if there's time
Speaker 1: tossed in as if it's nothing. Each fragment of her
Speaker 1: schedule seems to slip further from anything we built together.
Speaker 1: Desperate for some anchor, I suggest a date night, our
Speaker 1: old haunt Italian place with cheap carafts and long spinning conversations.
Speaker 1: She accepts, and for a few hours, over house wine
Speaker 1: and oily for Catcher, we're almost ourselves, laughing, reminiscing about
Speaker 1: bad art critiques, roasting Rowan's obsession with metallic paint. For
Speaker 1: a little while, everything is easy, but even here things surface.
Speaker 1: She checks her phone when she thinks I'm in the bathroom.
Speaker 1: When I tease her about a stain on her dress,
Speaker 1: she covers it, more self conscious than amused. It's the
Speaker 1: smallest things that change first, the way we talk around topics,
Speaker 1: the way we laugh too loudly, fill silent gaps with
Speaker 1: jokes that mean less than they used to. Walking home,
Speaker 1: she loops her arm through mine. Thank you, she says,
Speaker 1: genuine but distant. I needed to night. I want to
Speaker 1: say me too, but the words die on my tongue. Later,
Speaker 1: after she's fallen asleep, I check the sketch book again.
Speaker 1: I shouldn't. It's a violation maybe, but I can't help
Speaker 1: it this time. Further in are rough notes, snippets of dialog,
Speaker 1: fragments of inside jokes, in handwriting that isn't hers, lines
Speaker 1: with her familiar curves, but beside them a bolder, new script. Ellis's,
Speaker 1: I realize from a note he left on our counter
Speaker 1: last week. They're collaborating, Yes, but the boundary between creation
Speaker 1: and intimacy is gone. Your instincts are always right, He's
Speaker 1: written in the margin, beneath in her curl, only around you.
Speaker 1: I stare at the page until the lines blur. The
Speaker 1: next morning, I mention Ellis in passing as I slice
Speaker 1: oranges for breakfast. He's in a lot of your notes,
Speaker 1: I say, aiming for playfulness but missing the mark. Maria
Speaker 1: looks at me, unblinking. He has good ideas. We riff
Speaker 1: a lot when we are stuck. I know it looks intense,
Speaker 1: but it's just part of how I work. Sure, I
Speaker 1: say intense is good. I guess I don't know how
Speaker 1: to press further without losing something irretrievably. She seems relieved,
Speaker 1: quickly steering the conversation back to brunch plans with b
Speaker 1: That afternoon, Rowan sends a meme to the group chat
Speaker 1: an anxious frog with the text when her art collective
Speaker 1: is just a social club with a side of emotional crisis.
Speaker 1: Devon replies with a string of laughing emojis. Marrier hearts them,
Speaker 1: then logs off. I'm left staring at my phone long
Speaker 1: after the conversations died. Days pass, then a week, Marrier
Speaker 1: is more absent than ever. Late night studio sessions, pop
Speaker 1: up meetings, logistics, planning for future projects, all mingled into
Speaker 1: an endless stream that rarely intersects with my life. I
Speaker 1: go through the motions, work, food, emails. People ask how
Speaker 1: she is. I repeat the same lines, busy, brilliant, You
Speaker 1: know how she is. No one challenges me. On Thursday,
Speaker 1: I run into Devon at the corner wine shop, both
Speaker 1: of us reaching for the same bottle. She's flushed from
Speaker 1: the cold. Her tone hesitant. You see Marrier lately she
Speaker 1: seems different, not bad, just, I don't know, secretive. Maybe
Speaker 1: I crack a smile. She's always been a mystery. Devon hesitates.
Speaker 1: Just promise your talking, O kay. Sometimes group stuff gets complicated.
Speaker 1: Artists are good at hiding, even from themselves. I want
Speaker 1: to ask if she knows something I don't, but my
Speaker 1: pride stops me. I promise I'll talk to Marrier, then
Speaker 1: change the subject. Back at home, I open our shared
Speaker 1: laptop again. Old files scanned receipts, art references. My resolve
Speaker 1: is shaky, but I keep searching, half expecting, half hoping
Speaker 1: I'll find evidence that makes me the jealous one, the
Speaker 1: overy actor. Instead, the pattern deepens, hidden chats. Calender invites
Speaker 1: for two inside jokes that have nothing to do with art.
Speaker 1: One thread is intimate, not explicit, but woven through shared longing.
Speaker 1: She writes, you see the edges I can't show any
Speaker 1: one else. He answers, you make me want to begin again.
Speaker 1: Every night, my hands tremble for a long while, I
Speaker 1: just stare into the lamp light, heart beat loud in
Speaker 1: my ears. She comes home in the early dark of morning, again,
Speaker 1: humming a tune I can't place. I watch her move
Speaker 1: through the ritual of peeling off boots, dropping her bag,
Speaker 1: letting herself into the shower for the first time. I
Speaker 1: don't ask how her night was. Instead, I stack her
Speaker 1: sketch books, close the laptop, and sit silent in the
Speaker 1: living room's empty glow, listening to the city, to the
Speaker 1: reverberations of laughter I now know were never meant for me.
Speaker 1: For a while, I just sit there, sketch books stacked,
Speaker 1: laptop lids shut, city lights pressing against glass like a question.
Speaker 1: The apartment is still, except for the radiator ticking and
Speaker 1: the sound of marrier rinsing off paint somewhere behind a
Speaker 1: closed door. My heart clatters, but my hands are steady.
Speaker 1: It's as if, ever every nerve has burned out, leaving
Speaker 1: only the mechanical certainty that something fundamental has ended, even
Speaker 1: if I haven't said the words aloud yet. She comes
Speaker 1: out in sweats, her hair damp, Humming tunelessly. She freezes
Speaker 1: when she sees my posture, the closed computer, the sketch
Speaker 1: books fanned out on the coffee table. There's a beat,
Speaker 1: just the hush of possibility before something sharp and irreversible. Hey,
Speaker 1: she says, careful, wary. I nod, unable to flex my
Speaker 1: mouth into a greeting. I wait, not trusting myself with words,
Speaker 1: I might regret not trusting silence either. Everything okay, she asks,
Speaker 1: already knowing it is. A hundred thoughts pile up between
Speaker 1: her question and my answer. I could wait for a
Speaker 1: better moment, pretend I'm just tired, find another night to
Speaker 1: let things unravel. But there aren't better moments, not in
Speaker 1: the way we've let our life become. I reach for
Speaker 1: her sketch book. Not gentle, not performative. You left this open,
Speaker 1: she scoffs awkward. You're not usually so precious about my work.
Speaker 1: I'm not looking at the art, I say, not exactly.
Speaker 1: Her face stiffens. You were snooping. Her voice lands somewhere
Speaker 1: between accusation and fear, the edges of her control already
Speaker 1: fraying in that moment. I want to say I wasn't snooping,
Speaker 1: I was looking for us, but the words are gone,
Speaker 1: replaced by a cold, practical resolve. I open to the
Speaker 1: page with Ellis's portraits. I don't have to speak. She
Speaker 1: recognizes the threat in the gesture. For a long moment,
Speaker 1: neither of us say anything. Her chest rises and falls, shallow, brittle.
Speaker 1: She crosses her arms hard over her front. What are
Speaker 1: you looking for exactly? She manages? Are you just going
Speaker 1: to accuse me? Or I just want you to tell
Speaker 1: me the truth? Maria, I say just this once, the
Speaker 1: whole truth. I'm exhausted, she says, already blinking too fast.
Speaker 1: Why now there's no satisfying answer, so I don't give
Speaker 1: her one. The silence makes her squirm. She laughs, once,
Speaker 1: sharp and helpless. You're being crazy. Ellis is. He's just
Speaker 1: someone who gets it. He understands how frustrating the collective
Speaker 1: can be, how demanding it is. She's stalling, trying to
Speaker 1: buy time, slipping behind the old scaffolding of professional explanation.
Speaker 1: I shake my head. Are you sleeping with him? The
Speaker 1: question stills her, like a small impact, stopping a metronome midswing.
Speaker 1: Her mouth opens, then twists as if she might deny it,
Speaker 1: but she can't quite get there. I never meant to
Speaker 1: hurt you, she whispers. It's not a no. She drops
Speaker 1: on to the opposite end of the couch, the space
Speaker 1: between us, yawning. It started as nothing, she says, at last,
Speaker 1: it really did. We were just talking, venting, painting side
Speaker 1: by side. I felt stuck, and he, I don't know,
Speaker 1: he made things feel possible again. I was suffocating. I
Speaker 1: didn't want to come home and just unload on you.
Speaker 1: You were already so busy. I let the words hang.
Speaker 1: My hands itch to throw something, but I keep them
Speaker 1: flat on my knees. She runs her hands through her hair, agitated.
Speaker 1: It wasn't ever just about sex. Sometimes he just listened
Speaker 1: better than any one I've ever met. He made me
Speaker 1: feel like I wasn't invisible. I stare at her, trying
Speaker 1: to find the gap between who I thought she was
Speaker 1: and the woman in front of me. Was any of
Speaker 1: this about the art? I ask? Or is that just
Speaker 1: what you told yourself so it didn't count? She looks
Speaker 1: at me, eyes welling with something guilt maybe, or just
Speaker 1: raw exhaustion. I needed to feel wanted. I needed to
Speaker 1: feel like I mattered to someone, I swear. I tried
Speaker 1: to stop. I told him I couldn't keep going, but
Speaker 1: then the show would come up, or there'd be another
Speaker 1: long night and I'd end up back there again. Did
Speaker 1: you ever think about telling me? I ask? My voice
Speaker 1: sounds old to me, as if some one else is
Speaker 1: speaking about ending it before everything turned to lies. She's
Speaker 1: crying openly now. I kept telling myself I would. I
Speaker 1: just didn't know how. I thought. I thought if I
Speaker 1: could just get through this project, things would go back
Speaker 1: to normal, that I could put it all away. The
Speaker 1: words pummel me, but there's no anger left, only a
Speaker 1: grief so complete it feels like embalming. You had the choice.
Speaker 1: You made the choice every night you came home, every
Speaker 1: time you closed a door between us. You chose him.
Speaker 1: I know, she says, suddenly angry. I know, all right,
Speaker 1: but I didn't plan for this. I was just lost
Speaker 1: and maybe you didn't notice. But we haven't really been
Speaker 1: us for a long time. A sob scrapes out of
Speaker 1: her at the admission. There's nothing to say to that.
Speaker 1: We both sit in the shuddering quiet, the kind that
Speaker 1: follows the plummet after a crash. She tries to wipe
Speaker 1: her face, failing. I don't want to lose you, she says,
Speaker 1: voice breaking. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but
Speaker 1: I want to try at least to tell the truth
Speaker 1: to I cut her off, not unkind but tired. I
Speaker 1: don't know if there's anything left to save for a moment.
Speaker 1: Neither of us can move. The apartment has shrunk down,
Speaker 1: so that the only thing left inside it is this
Speaker 1: moment and the heap of things we can't fix. The
Speaker 1: city outside feels miles away, irrelevant. She stands. I'm sorry,
Speaker 1: she says again, I'm so sorry. I want to do better.
Speaker 1: If you want me to leave, I will, I shake
Speaker 1: my head, numb. I honestly don't know what I want.
Speaker 1: She walks to the bedroom, closes the door with a
Speaker 1: softness so deliberate it might break skin. I stare at
Speaker 1: the mess on our coffee table, the evidence, the sketches,
Speaker 1: the print outs, every piece of our private life now
Speaker 1: just scraps from a story that can't be reassembled. Ten
Speaker 1: minutes pass or an hour. My sense of time has loosened.
Speaker 1: Each muscle feels detached. I can hear her crying through
Speaker 1: the thin wall, the same way I once heard her
Speaker 1: sing to herself when she thought I was asleep. Another
Speaker 1: intimacy now curdled. My phone buzzies a message from rowan man.
Speaker 1: Haven't heard from you in a bit studio? Brunch you down,
Speaker 1: I type out nothing, lock the phone. I know I
Speaker 1: can't stay here to night. I gather myself up, moving
Speaker 1: on muscle, memory bag, wallet coat, I fill a duffel essentials,
Speaker 1: only not so much packing as grabbing and getting away.
Speaker 1: I leave her notes on the fridge, untouched. I take
Speaker 1: my chargers, my sketch book, a pair of sneakers. The
Speaker 1: idea of sleeping in our bed is unbearable. I stop
Speaker 1: at the door and look around the living room, once
Speaker 1: reassuring in its clutter now looks foreign. Her coats slung
Speaker 1: over a chair, an unfinished canvas leans in the corner.
Speaker 1: Our old photo strip from Brighton Beach is wedged in
Speaker 1: the mirror frame. Each artifact is simultaneously hers and mine,
Speaker 1: but neither any longer. I text Rowan ask if I
Speaker 1: can crash at his new loft for a while. The
Speaker 1: reply comes almost instantly, of course, doors open, Bring whiskey
Speaker 1: if you have it. I slot a bottle from our
Speaker 1: cabinet into my bag. At the threshold, I hesitate. I
Speaker 1: consider leaving a note, something grown up, dignified, fair, but
Speaker 1: words have failed us. I close the door gently on
Speaker 1: the cracked winter sidewalk. I call my parents. It rings
Speaker 1: three times before my dad picks up, voice groggy but warm. Hey,
Speaker 1: is everything all right? I swallow marrier and I, ah,
Speaker 1: we need some space. I'll call you soon. I just
Speaker 1: wanted you to know. He asks if I need anything.
Speaker 1: I don't trust my voice to answer. I say I'm fine.
Speaker 1: Rowan's loft is only a dozen blocks away, but the
Speaker 1: walk is wind stripped and invisible. Feeling city sounds more
Speaker 1: muted than usual. The bag is heavy. I press the buzzer,
Speaker 1: wait for the familiar click. Rowan appears in pajama pants, hair, wild,
Speaker 1: his expression quickly changing from confusion to worry. Shit, come in,
Speaker 1: Do you want tea or something stronger? Stronger? I manage,
Speaker 1: and he pours two glasses without further questions. We sit
Speaker 1: in silence for a while. The radiator working overtime canvases
Speaker 1: leaned three deep against every wall. Rowan doesn't ask anything
Speaker 1: at first, just hands me the blanket he keeps for
Speaker 1: chilly mornings, the kind of soft, unearned mercy that nearly
Speaker 1: undoes me. I try to thank him, but end up
Speaker 1: staring at a cheap print tacked to his studio wall,
Speaker 1: one Marrier picked out with him last summer. Everything echoes
Speaker 1: with her, or the idea of her. Eventually, Rowan asks,
Speaker 1: do you want to talk or no? I shake my head.
Speaker 1: Not right now. I sip whiskey. Let the burn do
Speaker 1: something medicinal. He nods, I'm here. Man. Much later, as
Speaker 1: Rowan falls asleep on the futon and the city's noise recedes,
Speaker 1: my phone rattles with a series of texts from Marrier.
Speaker 1: I leave them unread, silent. Each ping feels like a
Speaker 1: fresh nick in something half healed. I mute her thread,
Speaker 1: uncertain what would spill out if I let myself, absorb
Speaker 1: her explanations, apologies please. The hours until sunrise are long
Speaker 1: and private and lonely. The only comfort is that nobody
Speaker 1: expects anything from me, not for a little while. I
Speaker 1: scroll through emails, messages, gallery reminders, a half dozen friends
Speaker 1: ping small things you okay, thinking of you. Each one tugs,
Speaker 1: but none penetrate the numbness I've barricaded around myself. By
Speaker 1: late morning, the word is out, Marrier and I are
Speaker 1: on a break. The news travels as news always does
Speaker 1: in these circles, indirectly, piecemeal, swirling back via texts, awkward
Speaker 1: glances over coffee, conversations quickly shunted to safer terrain. Devon
Speaker 1: messages me a hesitant question. Mark B calls voice cautious
Speaker 1: but direct. If you need me say the word, otherwise
Speaker 1: I'll keep my mouth shut. I thank her, meaning it.
Speaker 1: Back at the apartment, logistical texts trickle in. Do you
Speaker 1: want me to sleep in the guest room to night?
Speaker 1: Marrier writes, followed by I packed your painting supplies for
Speaker 1: Rowan s Then I'm sorry, I really am. Whatever you
Speaker 1: want is okay? Keeping our life functional feels alien. I
Speaker 1: answer only when necessary, one word at a time. Mutual
Speaker 1: friends divide quickly. Some reach for me, others for Marrier.
Speaker 1: No one is neutral, not even those who pretend otherwise.
Speaker 1: A few stunned reactions, a few resigned ones. Be admits
Speaker 1: she suspected but had hoped it was simpler. A bad patch,
Speaker 1: a missed opportunity for honesty, not a full dissolution. Rowan's
Speaker 1: place is a mess, shared canvases drying on window sills,
Speaker 1: mugs abandoned beside sketch bads. Still, the chaos, none of it.
Speaker 1: Mine is a relief. It's impossible to grieve too hard
Speaker 1: for my own life against a backdrop so unmistakably some
Speaker 1: one else s. A day fades into another. Maria leaves
Speaker 1: me a voicemail, her voice shaky, apologizing, asking what comes next.
Speaker 1: I barely listen. I leave her a single reply. I
Speaker 1: need time. Please don't contact me unless it's necessary. I
Speaker 1: keep painting, but what emerges is colorless. Every brushstroke feels
Speaker 1: separate from desire. Still it's something to do. Rowan offers
Speaker 1: his supplies, his studio, time, even his playlist, the distractions
Speaker 1: of a true friend. I take what I need and
Speaker 1: let everything else drift by. On the third day, Marrier
Speaker 1: texts that shall stay in the guest room, asks about
Speaker 1: the utilities, the shows we were supposed to attend together.
Speaker 1: I tell her I'll sort my own tickets. I find
Speaker 1: myself crossing her name off a calendar reminder, feeling stupidly relieved,
Speaker 1: as if erasing her could make any of it less real.
Speaker 1: On the fourth day, the apartment's management emails, our rent
Speaker 1: is overdue. The routines, once mutual, have become a logistical hassle,
Speaker 1: each new detail a reminder that we are not and
Speaker 1: may not ever be quite the same. The friend group
Speaker 1: implodes quickly, social events awkwardly rescheduled, group chats falling silent,
Speaker 1: then splintering off. Gallery invitations quietly arriving only at my
Speaker 1: inbox or hers. Every acknowledgment carries a new ache, except
Speaker 1: for the unexpected relief that comes with solitude. When the
Speaker 1: next collective pop up rolls around, the invite is addressed
Speaker 1: to me alone, I decline. I delete the email. I
Speaker 1: learn Marrier has dropped her name from the group project,
Speaker 1: needing time to reset. I don't know where she's sleeping now,
Speaker 1: I don't ask. Finally, a week after Rowan's Futon becomes
Speaker 1: my home base. I find myself pacing the windows at dawn,
Speaker 1: blank canvas propped against the far wall, paint tubes mocking
Speaker 1: me with their possibilities. I take out my bag, still
Speaker 1: half way unpacked from the first night. I find a
Speaker 1: fragment of our old mural sketch, still marked in her handwriting,
Speaker 1: let's just do it. Trust the mess. I turn it
Speaker 1: over on the back. In my own hand, i'd written,
Speaker 1: we finish things together. The words read like a joke,
Speaker 1: now cruel in their optimism. My phone buzz is low.
Speaker 1: One last text from Marrier, can I come by to
Speaker 1: pick up some things? I stare at the request, at
Speaker 1: the sketch in my hand, I type, I'll leave your
Speaker 1: stuff at the front desk, take what you need. It
Speaker 1: feels final, but not cruel. I watch the light crawl
Speaker 1: across the empty canvas. Some endings don't need ceremony. I
Speaker 1: move to the work space, line up palette and brush
Speaker 1: beside the window, habit returning like a dull ache, I
Speaker 1: set the sketch face down beside me, eyes on the
Speaker 1: blankness ahead. I dip the brush into paint, not thinking
Speaker 1: beyond the movement, the gesture the city throws gold across
Speaker 1: glass and brick. I make the first mark, one sharp,
Speaker 1: defiant line in a field of white. It's mine, unequivocally,
Speaker 1: breath in, brush poised, I hesitate one more second, then
Speaker 1: let it fall. Whatever shape emerges, it belongs to me, finally,
Speaker 1: only to me. The brush lands. The line is harsh,
Speaker 1: slightly wavering, a pale ochre smear against the white. It
Speaker 1: doesn't mean anything yet, just a mark, something that wasn't
Speaker 1: there before. The sun catches against my wrist, Fragments of
Speaker 1: last night's conversation flickering through my mind, her eyes swimming,
Speaker 1: her knuckles pressing into her palms, that shudder of breath
Speaker 1: when she admitted finally that it wasn't just about art.
Speaker 1: I set the brush down and press my thumb into
Speaker 1: the paint, less careful than i'd usually be, grinding a
Speaker 1: bit of pigment between my fingers until my skin stains yellow.
Speaker 1: There's a low conversation in the common space outside Rowan's loft,
Speaker 1: someone griping about shipping canvases, the grind of an espresso maker,
Speaker 1: the every day hum. For a second, I crave the
Speaker 1: simple safety of those sounds, the ordinariness of other people's
Speaker 1: lives continuing while mine hangs open, nerves singing with absence.
Speaker 1: I wander to the window. From up here, the city
Speaker 1: is a lattice of roof lines and fire escapes, laundry
Speaker 1: moving in the hard wind. Half the neighborhood sleepwalking through
Speaker 1: its routines. Somewhere out there, Marrier is packing her own bag,
Speaker 1: or sitting in our kitchen, or crying into the same
Speaker 1: pillow she brought just months before, with a different future
Speaker 1: in mind. The knowledge barely registers. It's a dull background ache.
Speaker 1: My phone sits screened down beside me, purposefully ignored. All
Speaker 1: the logistics are finished, her things are at the desk,
Speaker 1: utilities paid up for now, come by when I'm gone.
Speaker 1: The language of divorce is so much drier than its reality.
Speaker 1: But for all that finality eludes me. The room feels unbalanced,
Speaker 1: as if I've left something running and open forcet just
Speaker 1: out of hearing range. Rowan's up now, yawning, shuffling in
Speaker 1: his slippers. How do you sleep, he asks, trying for
Speaker 1: casual I didn't much. He nods, want eggs, Coffee's on,
Speaker 1: I can run out for bagels. I shake my head,
Speaker 1: legs restless, I might get some air, try to walk
Speaker 1: it off. He leaves the offer open, busying himself around
Speaker 1: the kitchen. I step into the stairwell, letting the metal
Speaker 1: door clang behind me. On the landing, the world smells
Speaker 1: like cold steel and frying onions, a city in mid thought.
Speaker 1: I take the stairs too at a time, emerge into
Speaker 1: daylight sharp enough to sting. My feet move without intention,
Speaker 1: past shops, just opening walls. I once planned to mural
Speaker 1: with marrier spots where our group used to sneak beers
Speaker 1: before open mics. Half way to nowhere, I see B
Speaker 1: on the corner, paper bag in hand, hood up against
Speaker 1: the cold. She almost doesn't see me. When she does,
Speaker 1: her eyes widen, mouth pinched in a way that's both
Speaker 1: pitying and searching for a heartbeat. I debate, ducking away,
Speaker 1: the fatigue of explanation nearly bone deep, but I relent.
Speaker 1: We stop in the middle of the sidewalk. You look
Speaker 1: like hell, she says, blunt as always feel like it,
Speaker 1: I reply, failing at a grin. She hesitates, then offers,
Speaker 1: do you want a talk or just want coffee? I
Speaker 1: shake my head, ashamed at how thin my voice sounds,
Speaker 1: not yet every one keeps asking and I have no
Speaker 1: words for any of it. It's just noise. I keep
Speaker 1: thinking there's something to explain, but there is. She crossed
Speaker 1: a line. I saw it, that's all be looks behind me,
Speaker 1: scanning the waking street. You know everyone's got an opinion.
Speaker 1: Half our crew's blaming the scene. The rest just wanted over.
Speaker 1: Some people act like this kind of stuff is inevitable.
Speaker 1: I didn't think it was, I admit, not for us.
Speaker 1: She exhales, slowly, nodding. I know if you need something,
Speaker 1: really need it, you call. Okay. I want to thank her,
Speaker 1: but the words threaten tears. I nod. As she turns
Speaker 1: to leave, she stops. Don't let this mess take art
Speaker 1: from you too, she says, surprisingly gentle, or you'll have
Speaker 1: nothing left. The words stick. I walk a little more,
Speaker 1: then double back to Rowan's heart beating in my ears,
Speaker 1: brain buzzing like I've mainlined too much caffeine. Inside, Rowan
Speaker 1: is upside down on his head, wrestling a tangled extension cord.
Speaker 1: He says nothing, just points to fresh coffee. I drink.
Speaker 1: It's scalds, but I finish all the same. Later, my
Speaker 1: notifications pile up gallery reminders. A group chat pinging plans
Speaker 1: for Friday. My finger hovers over the group name. I
Speaker 1: exit the chat without reading the backlog. It's easier to
Speaker 1: retreat for now, to draw boundaries with absence. Marrier's text
Speaker 1: pops up in the afternoon. Let me know if you
Speaker 1: want to talk. After I pick up my stuff, I'll
Speaker 1: bring your jacket. It's been hard. I wish things could
Speaker 1: have been different. I type nothing in reply, just thumb
Speaker 1: the screen off. The act of not responding is in
Speaker 1: itself an answer. A couple hours pass before I muster
Speaker 1: the energy to return to the canvas. Rowan slips out
Speaker 1: for a meeting alone in the studio. I set out
Speaker 1: my tools, pencils, a muddied rag palett knives. I force
Speaker 1: myself to commit, mixing color with more energy than I feel.
Speaker 1: I draft the negative spaces, try to sense the image
Speaker 1: I might build into them, but my mind is a
Speaker 1: wash with static. Marry laugh Ellis's hands in a sketch,
Speaker 1: my father's voice on the phone in the middle of
Speaker 1: the night, bees warning. I think about the times art
Speaker 1: used to be our shared language, The way she critiqued
Speaker 1: my work, how her gaze could turn even a boring
Speaker 1: piece electric. Now the gaze I remember is fixed on
Speaker 1: some one else for the first time in weeks, There's
Speaker 1: no bitness, only a resigned clarity. I can't control who
Speaker 1: she loves or what needs she chose to chase. She
Speaker 1: stepped out of the life we built, and I can't
Speaker 1: follow her, No matter how much I want to crawl
Speaker 1: backward in time and cauterize the wound. I lay her
Speaker 1: in new colors, shapes, unplanned. The brushwork is raw but honest.
Speaker 1: When the paint is thick and the lines are sharp,
Speaker 1: the pain seems at least contained, if not soothed then channeled.
Speaker 1: Just as I'm cleaning my hands, my phone rings. It's
Speaker 1: rowan voice, tinny and small over speaker. Hey, Marryers downstairs
Speaker 1: at the desk, just letting you know she said she
Speaker 1: won't come up. My stomach clenches. Thanks man, I don't
Speaker 1: go down. From above, I hear the faint click of
Speaker 1: the building's door, the distant sound of her boots on tile,
Speaker 1: the muffled conversation of Marrier handing a tote and garment
Speaker 1: bag to the security guard. The moment is heavy, but anticlimactic,
Speaker 1: a quiet trade of artifacts. Instead of drama. As the
Speaker 1: footsteps fade, I realize that I don't feel relief, just
Speaker 1: a calmer kind of despair. There's nothing left to fight over.
Speaker 1: Her things are gone, my things, I suppose, remain. That
Speaker 1: night is silent but for the wind in the eaves
Speaker 1: and the tic tick of a cooling radiator. I sleep fitfully, dreamless,
Speaker 1: grateful to wake. The following afternoon, the city is splashed
Speaker 1: with a waning sun. I mop up a spill in
Speaker 1: the kitchen, then stand at the window with a cup
Speaker 1: of tea, surveying the world below. It's ordinary and mercifully unfamiliar.
Speaker 1: No more waiting for keys at the door or laughter
Speaker 1: in the hallway. A different solitude now, I think of
Speaker 1: the friends whose group chat now sits empty of Bee's
Speaker 1: face on the corner, the fine vertical line that's the
Speaker 1: start of something on my latest canvas. I have no
Speaker 1: idea what I'll paint, or if I'll keep painting at all,
Speaker 1: But for the first time in weeks, there is a
Speaker 1: silence that isn't threatening. I sit down in front of
Speaker 1: that new still blank stretch brush, hovering madair. Each movement
Speaker 1: is my own, whatever I decide it means or doesn't.
Speaker 1: I close my eyes, take a deeper breath than I've
Speaker 1: managed since all of this began. And then, as the
Speaker 1: sun dips westward and the city leans into its next night,
Speaker 1: I let the brush fall again, and except at last
Speaker 1: the shape of what comes next.