Speaker 1: It's a Friday night in late October, the city still
Speaker 1: busy with the last evening markets. I'm staying late at
Speaker 1: the gallery, one of those nights when success gives you
Speaker 1: extra energy, not less. People lingered long after closing for
Speaker 1: Meyer's new retrospective, A dozen hands to shake, laughter echoing
Speaker 1: off white walls as paintings came down and pedestals shifted.
Speaker 1: I kept thinking how Sam would have loved this, the
Speaker 1: clever installations, the tangled post mortems, that strange moment at midnight,
Speaker 1: when everything is only half assembled or half gone. I
Speaker 1: texted Sam, show was great. Meet at Vintner's after for
Speaker 1: a glass. The old ritual, a toast to the weak.
Speaker 1: We used to play a silent game about whose day
Speaker 1: was more ridiculous. His response was almost immediate, can't at
Speaker 1: hackethon W Matt long night, love you, no period, no
Speaker 1: joke about my art vampires. Lately his texts had gone minimalist.
Speaker 1: At first, I told myself it was just the work's stress,
Speaker 1: the new start up, with late caffeine, sick nights, actual whiteboards,
Speaker 1: engineers sprawled across bean bags. But to night I couldn't
Speaker 1: quite picture him there. I wanted to be annoyed at
Speaker 1: him for bailing, but mostly I missed the way he
Speaker 1: used to always turn up in the doorway, hair a mess,
Speaker 1: with a paper bag of some new cheese for us
Speaker 1: to try. I let it go. I closed out the register,
Speaker 1: logged into the security feed. The gallery was quiet, street
Speaker 1: light sending blurred gold through the glass. The pang surprised me,
Speaker 1: a kind of hollowness that wasn't quite worry, but wasn't
Speaker 1: comfort either. When I finally locked the doors and stepped
Speaker 1: out into the shimmer of the street, I thought about
Speaker 1: heading home, instead, my feet took me west to the bar. Anyway,
Speaker 1: five years married, I still missed him when he wasn't
Speaker 1: with me. The vintner was humming, windows fogged, low, laughter
Speaker 1: rapping around me as I passed through. I ordered a
Speaker 1: glass and perched at the far end, sifting the day
Speaker 1: through my mind. I'd nearly finished my first drink when
Speaker 1: I spotted Lana, our sometime brunch co conspirator, weaving through
Speaker 1: tables in a red scarf I'd given her for her birthday.
Speaker 1: She clinked her glass to mine in greeting. Cheeks flushed.
Speaker 1: We fell into easy chatter about the show Lena is
Speaker 1: that rare friend who can speak about both tcp IP
Speaker 1: protocols and Chagall's blue period. But then, in her breezy tone,
Speaker 1: she added, I was going to text you, but your
Speaker 1: man looked busy at the Green Finch last night. Who
Speaker 1: was that crowd? I didn't recognize any one except Sam,
Speaker 1: but he seemed deep in conversation. I blinked, caught off guard.
Speaker 1: The Green Finch, I repeated, searching my memory. I'd never
Speaker 1: even heard the name. She nodded, as if I were
Speaker 1: being obtuse. Yeah, you know, the little place off Queen
Speaker 1: with the weird bird mural in the window. She made
Speaker 1: a face. I don't get the high, but Sam seemed
Speaker 1: into it. I tried to make it sound casual, weird.
Speaker 1: He said he was working late with Matt again. Must
Speaker 1: have just stopped in after it was pretty packed, she replied, oblivious. Anyway,
Speaker 1: I barely waved before I left. Lena checked her phone
Speaker 1: and ducked away with an apology about tomorrow's class. Standing
Speaker 1: in a neon wash by the bar, I felt almost
Speaker 1: foolish for the way her comment pinged inside me, a swift,
Speaker 1: cold rush of nothingness. If it had been any one else,
Speaker 1: But Lana is guileless, all observable data, rarely one to embellish.
Speaker 1: There wasn't even an edge to her voice, just the
Speaker 1: barest tilt, as if she'd expected my knowing smile and
Speaker 1: didn't get it. I walked home in the sharp night,
Speaker 1: passing shop windows that threw my face back toward me
Speaker 1: in snippets. Maybe Sam got bored with work drinks and
Speaker 1: ducked somewhere New. Maybe Lena just got the night wrong.
Speaker 1: I almost texted him to ask how his night was,
Speaker 1: but the last minute I locked my phone and pressed
Speaker 1: it face down into my nightstand drawer. Even in the
Speaker 1: windowed hush of our apartment, Lena's words replayed in odd
Speaker 1: stops and starts. I kept thinking about that sly, almost
Speaker 1: embarrassed look she had given me the green finch New people.
Speaker 1: I told myself not to invent drama, not to clutch
Speaker 1: old rituals so tightly. I made tea, scrolled mindlessly through Instagram,
Speaker 1: and decided that to morrow i'd let it go. But
Speaker 1: as I brushed my teeth, the seed was lodged. Saturday
Speaker 1: sunlight never feels quite real in October, strong but thin,
Speaker 1: cutting sharply through the kitchen, as if it's reminding you
Speaker 1: that winter's coming. I padded barefoot to the living room,
Speaker 1: hunting for the sweater Sam always miss places on his
Speaker 1: side of the couch. Sam was still asleep. He'd come
Speaker 1: home after midnight. I remembered the scrape of his keys,
Speaker 1: waking me. He hardly spoke, just mumbled something about bugs
Speaker 1: in the build and rolled away from me in the dark.
Speaker 1: It didn't use to be like that. I made coffee
Speaker 1: and tiptoed back, intending to surprise him with breakfast, but
Speaker 1: paused as I picked up his jeans off the radiator
Speaker 1: to toss into our laundry pile. A crumpled paper poked
Speaker 1: from his pocket the corner of a receipt. I smoothed
Speaker 1: it absent mindedly, intending to throw it away, but the
Speaker 1: name caught my eye in the header, the Green Finch date,
Speaker 1: two nights ago time, almost exactly when Lena said she'd
Speaker 1: seen him. My first thought was practical, he's allowed to
Speaker 1: go out. Maybe it was a one off, a detour
Speaker 1: with work friends to blow off steam. Maybe he didn't
Speaker 1: want to drag me out on a week night. He
Speaker 1: knows how wrecked my feet are after a full install.
Speaker 1: But it was the smallness of the thing, the crumpled receipt,
Speaker 1: the untold story, that started to make my thoughts curl
Speaker 1: back on themselves. I stood in our narrow galley kitchen,
Speaker 1: account for one breath too if I asked him now?
Speaker 1: Was I accusing him or just trying to understand why
Speaker 1: he didn't mention a new bar. I put the jeens aside,
Speaker 1: tucked the receipt into my robe pocket, and decided to
Speaker 1: leave it for later. Don't be petty, I ordered myself.
Speaker 1: He's tired. He came into the kitchen, hair wild, eyes
Speaker 1: still soft with sleep. Sam used to be luminous in
Speaker 1: the mornings, always creating some kind of laugh out of nothing,
Speaker 1: But to day he just nodded at the coffee and
Speaker 1: groaned a little, swiping at his phone with sore looking thumbs.
Speaker 1: Brunch at Lola S, I suggested, searching his face. Can
Speaker 1: we just eat here? He muttered, not really waiting for
Speaker 1: my answer. I got to finish something for Matt before noon.
Speaker 1: I shrugged it off, plaiting up eggs and toast, as
Speaker 1: if warmth and normalcy could be served like a side dish.
Speaker 1: I tried to steer conversation, gallery news, a play I
Speaker 1: wanted to see, but he was half there, blue glow
Speaker 1: of his phone always at the corner of his sight.
Speaker 1: When I finally found the nerve to mention the Green Finch,
Speaker 1: I tried to sound off hand. Hey, Lena said she
Speaker 1: saw you at some new place the other night, the
Speaker 1: Green Finch. I'm hurt you went to a fun bar
Speaker 1: without me. Sam glanced up, but barely. Yeah, just a
Speaker 1: dive bar. The guy's found nothing special. He twisted his mug,
Speaker 1: almost annoyed. Honestly, we just needed to decompress. Not really
Speaker 1: your thing, babe. He kept his eyes down, spoon clinking,
Speaker 1: the topic sliding away before I could think of a
Speaker 1: reason to reach for it. I told myself to listen.
Speaker 1: He'd given me an answer, but I felt that familiar tug,
Speaker 1: the small, persistent discomfort of a puzzle piece pressed in wrong.
Speaker 1: After he'd gone to shower, I called Mara, because I've
Speaker 1: always trusted Mara with my unfiltered self. Her voice crackled
Speaker 1: from inside some yoga studio. You're not silly, she said gently,
Speaker 1: after I told her about the bar. Receipt. Intuition matters
Speaker 1: areli It might be nothing but you're allowed to wonder.
Speaker 1: I hate feeling like a jealous wife. I whispered, the phrase,
Speaker 1: tasting sour in my mouth. You're not jealous, she replied,
Speaker 1: You're present. That's what makes you good together. But if
Speaker 1: it keeps bothering you, ask him again. Direct always works
Speaker 1: better for you. I thanked her, Feeling only a tiny
Speaker 1: bit better. My mind kept circling. Would I even know
Speaker 1: it if something was wrong, or if I spent all
Speaker 1: these years perfecting trust just for the sake of comfort.
Speaker 1: Apartment is a hodgepodge of what I call escaping. My
Speaker 1: art books stacked on hardware, modded coffee tables, Sam built
Speaker 1: from cragslist fines, His mountain of device charges in the
Speaker 1: bowl near the door, alongside my tube of French hand cream.
Speaker 1: In the early years, our boundaries blurred so deliciously that
Speaker 1: I imagined us as a seamless ven diagram, two ambitious
Speaker 1: people in orbit, always returning to the same center. I
Speaker 1: used to lie off at how our friends envied our rhythm.
Speaker 1: Alice and Sam stronger together. We met seven years ago
Speaker 1: at a gallery event. I was hosting a midweek gathering
Speaker 1: with a post industrial vibe. Everyone in black neon paintings,
Speaker 1: music straight out of an algorithm. Sam came as someone's
Speaker 1: plus one, but wandered over to my curation notes, asking thorny,
Speaker 1: nerdy questions about line and color. I liked him instantly,
Speaker 1: his habit of finishing sentences with a question, his gentle boldness.
Speaker 1: Two weeks later, we spent a poor over Sunday, sprawled
Speaker 1: in bed, inventing fake biographies for each other based on
Speaker 1: friends Instagram feeds. Suddenly it was two years later, and
Speaker 1: we bought a place together, a fourth floor walk up
Speaker 1: with pealing brick and enough space for us both to
Speaker 1: host our messes, mine literal. His digital marriage came as
Speaker 1: a second subtler evolution, a spring ceremony on a rooftop
Speaker 1: with a cake. My mother complained about it, salted caramel,
Speaker 1: that's not real cake, Friends dancing out of control, Sam's hand,
Speaker 1: never leaving mine. Our routines grew up around us, like roots,
Speaker 1: the morning swap for who gets the first shower, the
Speaker 1: museum Sundays, last minute dinner parties, echoing with in jokes
Speaker 1: about my art mafia and his code trolls. Through it all,
Speaker 1: trust was the rule, not the exception we envied single
Speaker 1: friends for their stories, but felt quietly smug that our
Speaker 1: drama was mostly about spilled wine, not cheating hearts. I
Speaker 1: knew his passwords and he knew my moods. Any couple
Speaker 1: I suppose thinks they know who they are right up
Speaker 1: until they don't. The last year being honest had brought
Speaker 1: new pressures. Sam had quit his stable job to launch
Speaker 1: a software start up with his friend Matt, which meant
Speaker 1: longer hours, more risk, unpredictable moods. He was up at dawn,
Speaker 1: bleary eyed but hopeful. Meanwhile, I was promoted to lead curator,
Speaker 1: suddenly swimming in celebrity donors and high wattage artists whose
Speaker 1: egos took up whole rooms. Still we found each other
Speaker 1: phone calls from airports, memes about our epic failures, late
Speaker 1: night check ins from opposite sides of the world. It
Speaker 1: was the pressure cooker, but we promised it wouldn't change us.
Speaker 1: But lately Sam's work had taken on the feeling of
Speaker 1: a closed club. Early on, I'd tag along to hackathons
Speaker 1: or brainstorm dinners. Now his invitations stopped. Our mutual texts
Speaker 1: thin to bear logistics, need more coffee, be home late,
Speaker 1: left your coat by the door. The apartment was full
Speaker 1: of leftover evidence of old routines, now half kept. Two
Speaker 1: chipped espresso cups on the drying rack, the print out
Speaker 1: of my gallery calendar with sticky notes he used to
Speaker 1: doodle on. There were still laughter sometimes, but it was threadbare.
Speaker 1: As I lay in bed that Saturday night, Sam snoring
Speaker 1: beside me, I told myself to be sensible. Everyone needs boundaries.
Speaker 1: Maybe he just found a new rhythm with his team,
Speaker 1: a world I couldn't squeeze into with gallery clothes and
Speaker 1: my fondness for quiet dinners. He had said as much
Speaker 1: more than once that it didn't have to mean anything.
Speaker 1: Better to let him come back to me on his
Speaker 1: own terms than to dig for hurt. But the next
Speaker 1: week I started noticing Sam's stories growing sparser, full of
Speaker 1: lost details. Late night at the office, he'd say, but
Speaker 1: didn't mention who was there. Once I texted to ask
Speaker 1: if he wanted tie, and he didn't respond for hours later,
Speaker 1: claiming his phone died. Another night, he announced he had
Speaker 1: an off site, but when I prodded for specifics, what company,
Speaker 1: When are you back? He gave a non answer, then
Speaker 1: pivoted to teasing me about my latest crazy artist at
Speaker 1: the gallery. I tried not to keep score, but there
Speaker 1: were moments I heard my own voice sounding clipped. One Saturday,
Speaker 1: he forgot to come home for lunch after a supposed
Speaker 1: morning meeting with Matt. By two zero zero. He texted sorry,
Speaker 1: ran late again. I couldn't stop myself from imagining a
Speaker 1: second screw a place in the city I wasn't welcome.
Speaker 1: A week after finding the first receipt, I noticed Sam's
Speaker 1: phone seemed to be glued to him, even in our apartment.
Speaker 1: For years, his device would be abandoned on the kitchen
Speaker 1: counter overnight. Now he took it into the shower. One evening,
Speaker 1: as I wiped down the kitchen table, I spotted his
Speaker 1: screen lighting up with a message. The preview read only
Speaker 1: want to do and a name below Emily. A strange
Speaker 1: name in Sam's phone wasn't outlandish. He knew a dozen
Speaker 1: Emilyes through his network designers, coders, product managers, but he'd
Speaker 1: never mentioned one as part of his new start up.
Speaker 1: I filed it away. A couple nights later, when Sam
Speaker 1: dumped his coat on the floor, a ride chair receipt
Speaker 1: fluttered to the ground. I picked it up, drop off
Speaker 1: at forty three Southfield. I didn't know that address, not
Speaker 1: his office, not Matt's, not any friends I recognized. He
Speaker 1: glanced over my shoulder. Ah was splitting with the team
Speaker 1: after drinks. Needed a ride. Her place is down there,
Speaker 1: I think, anyway, can you throw that away? He was
Speaker 1: so casual, I almost forgot to be curious. But something
Speaker 1: about the pattern, the new name, the unexplained bar. Now
Speaker 1: this felt like the start of a story. I hadn't
Speaker 1: been told yet. That Sunday, our tradition of market morning
Speaker 1: slipped by. When I reached for his hand at breakfast,
Speaker 1: Sam pulled away gently, already half in his slack messages.
Speaker 1: Really need to prep for a client call, he said,
Speaker 1: voice paper thin. I tried to suggest a walk in
Speaker 1: the park instead, a way to reset. He smiled, but
Speaker 1: didn't really see me. The tension hovered unspoken that night,
Speaker 1: as he slept on his side, breathing softly. I replayed
Speaker 1: Lena's story in my head, the smell of the green
Speaker 1: finch on his jacket, the images of receipts I'd memorized
Speaker 1: just in case. I wondered if maybe I was becoming
Speaker 1: suspicious for nothing, or if something real was unraveling. A
Speaker 1: few days later, we hosted a rare dinner at our
Speaker 1: place with a group of Sam's old colleagues. In years past,
Speaker 1: these parties were some of our happiest times, a collision
Speaker 1: of gallery humor and nerd night life, curated wine lists,
Speaker 1: and brainstorming that ended in card games. This time, the
Speaker 1: current was off. Sam was jumpy, more preoccupied with refilling
Speaker 1: drinks than really talking to any one. When Mara arrived
Speaker 1: and hugged me tight, I felt a wave of relief
Speaker 1: so fierce I almost started crying into her hair. Dinner
Speaker 1: moved along awkwardly. Sam told a rambling anecdote about a
Speaker 1: hackethon sleepover at Matt's new place, but two of the
Speaker 1: guests exchanged a look. I caught it, one of those quick,
Speaker 1: involuntary flinches people make when some one bends the truth
Speaker 1: and every one knows it. I tried to join in,
Speaker 1: asking about Matt's new apartment, should I bring a housewarming
Speaker 1: gift if he ever invites us. One guest, Jamie, snorted,
Speaker 1: Matt's barely home these days. I thought Sam was the
Speaker 1: only one crashing there. The joke landed wrong. Sam stiffened,
Speaker 1: but waved it off, saying something about work, wives and
Speaker 1: start up life. An hour later, as I cleared plates
Speaker 1: in the kitchen, Jamie stepped in for water. She looked
Speaker 1: at me, hesitated, and said, you know, Sam's really been
Speaker 1: hanging with that new dev right, Emily. She's new to
Speaker 1: the group, but seems cool. I heard their working late
Speaker 1: on some feature set. She's definitely around a lot. There
Speaker 1: was a tone searching for my reaction. I faked to nod,
Speaker 1: but the sense of being outside the circle tightened, unfamiliar.
Speaker 1: When everyone left, Sam barely noticed my quiet. At midnight,
Speaker 1: he emerged from his office and passed me on the
Speaker 1: way to bed, not so much as brushing my shoulder.
Speaker 1: I decided to message an old acquaintance in the tech scene, Casey,
Speaker 1: under the guise of needing good data visualizers for a
Speaker 1: gallery project. I asked after Emily specifically. The reply came
Speaker 1: fifteen minutes later. Oh, Sam's friend from the project. She
Speaker 1: seems close with him. Is she looking for more work?
Speaker 1: I reread that pause, seems close, but forced myself not
Speaker 1: to ask further questions. I was already towing past the
Speaker 1: line of healthy curiosity. Our week ends began to feel
Speaker 1: stretched and uneven, Sam missed our Sunday walk brunch with
Speaker 1: Emily and Gregg workshop thing. I'll send you pictures if
Speaker 1: they're any good. The message had a brittle undertone, like
Speaker 1: a test. In the afternoon, our apartment was silent in
Speaker 1: a way that felt personal. At dinner, Sam scrolled relentlessly
Speaker 1: through messages, half smiling at something I couldn't see. He
Speaker 1: apologized for not feeling present and promised to make it
Speaker 1: up to me, but kept pushing plans off this week,
Speaker 1: next week, always after the next demo or sprint. A
Speaker 1: month went by. I kept my nose out of his phone,
Speaker 1: but the restlessness in our own house was like a splinter.
Speaker 1: Friends invitations star to dry up, a couple of mist
Speaker 1: group dinners and ic VP. Sam never replied to We'll
Speaker 1: make the next one. He promised, eyes remote. Twice I
Speaker 1: saw him tagged by mutual acquaintances at bars or events
Speaker 1: I'd never heard of, gear and gadgets, new faces, a
Speaker 1: city I seemed no longer to belong to. One Thursday,
Speaker 1: walking home past the Green Finch, I finally peered through
Speaker 1: the window, heart racing. The crowd inside was all laughter
Speaker 1: and light, a different ecosystem half of them in jenes
Speaker 1: and text swag. I'd never been inside, never been invited,
Speaker 1: though five years ago Sam would have dragged me in
Speaker 1: just to show me the weird wall paper. I stood outside,
Speaker 1: feeling like an observer in my own life. The doubts
Speaker 1: waxed and waned, sometimes replaced by shame at my own paranoia.
Speaker 1: I told myself it was work, stress, that new boundaries
Speaker 1: were healthy. Still, my mind played tricks, mapping rideshere, receipts
Speaker 1: to addresses, examining financial statements for odd late night charging.
Speaker 1: Once I saw a food delivery at one forty three,
Speaker 1: a m build to an os X machine, Sam's computer.
Speaker 1: He told me he'd come home early that night. I
Speaker 1: stayed silent. My own work began to suffer from distraction.
Speaker 1: Artists noticed my absences. Mara covered a meeting I missed.
Speaker 1: I blamed my mood on scheduling, blamed scheduling on Sam's needs.
Speaker 1: We're just in a rough patch. By December, I decided
Speaker 1: to try to reclaim our rhythm. I booked a surprise
Speaker 1: weekend getaway a cozy mountain in we once stumbled upon
Speaker 1: in our first year together, all threadbare throes and battered
Speaker 1: board games. I texted Sam the details, bracing for protest.
Speaker 1: He surprised me by agreeing with enthusiasm. Yeah, we really
Speaker 1: need this. I'll reschedule demo night. On the drive up,
Speaker 1: we fought about music, but it felt almost like old times.
Speaker 1: The air grew colder, our city shrank to a flicker
Speaker 1: behind us. That night, over one and a roaring fire,
Speaker 1: Sam apologized for being distant. The lines in his face softened.
Speaker 1: I've just been lost in work, he murmured. I'm sorry
Speaker 1: if I made you feel shut out. I love you, Alice.
Speaker 1: I'm trying to do this right. He promised, for the
Speaker 1: first time in months, to come to my next gallery opening.
Speaker 1: We fell asleep, tangled together the way you think only
Speaker 1: newlyweds do. The morning was easy, laughter, stubbornly returning. We
Speaker 1: talked about next year, places we still wanted to go together, Lisbon, Berlin,
Speaker 1: even finally visiting my cousin in Paris. All the old
Speaker 1: security settled around me. Maybe everything had just been nerves transition.
Speaker 1: Maybe I've been inventing imaginary rivals out of a need
Speaker 1: to feel necessary. We drove home in high spirits, calling
Speaker 1: in take out from our favorite tie place at the door.
Speaker 1: Sam handed me a note in his messy handwriting dinner
Speaker 1: es on me to night and also let's both skip
Speaker 1: our phones for the first night in Ages. Our apartment
Speaker 1: was golden with small comforts, jokes, shared, leftovers, music turned
Speaker 1: up too loud. Something inside me loosened. The truth I
Speaker 1: told myself is that we grew busy. Now we're circling back.
Speaker 1: Later that week, my gallery's new client sent me a
Speaker 1: cheerful Instagram d M, your guy is famous. Now look
Speaker 1: who I spotted at the arbor. I tapped the story open,
Speaker 1: out of habit, expecting a room full of insufferable art investors. Instead,
Speaker 1: my thumb froze. There in the crowded bar, Sam leaned
Speaker 1: across a glowing table. He was laughing, voice muted by
Speaker 1: the crowd, close, very close to a woman with dark hair,
Speaker 1: the light catching her jaw as she smiled. The caption
Speaker 1: beneath roof top crew last Night, Greenfinch, Friday fam. The
Speaker 1: time stamp was from the previous night, when Sam had
Speaker 1: told me he was working from home, too busy even
Speaker 1: for a gallery call. I scrolled back, found his chat
Speaker 1: way behind on code head down to night, love you.
Speaker 1: My mind began to blur the rim of memory and
Speaker 1: suspicion overlaying old, innocent moments with the new images. Was
Speaker 1: that Emily? I stared at the screen. There was no tag,
Speaker 1: no name, but something about the easy intimacy, the way
Speaker 1: she tucked her hair behind her ear for him looked practiced.
Speaker 1: I called Mara voice trembling and forded the video. Am
Speaker 1: I losing it? Or is that Sam? She barely hesitated. Ali,
Speaker 1: that's him? Is that Emily? I think so? I whispered
Speaker 1: for the first time. Denial was harder to reach than confrontation,
Speaker 1: but I still wasn't ready to ask Sam outright. Instead,
Speaker 1: over the following days, I began constructing a quiet ledger
Speaker 1: of his weeks, times, places stories. I compared ride share
Speaker 1: receipts with public posts. I mapped late night charges to
Speaker 1: venues I'd never visited. One night, when Sam was busy
Speaker 1: in his office, I scrolled through social media feeds of
Speaker 1: people he'd recently followed. Emily's profol was private, but her
Speaker 1: thumbnail picture was the same as the woman in the
Speaker 1: rooftop bar photo. Scrolling through odd checkins, bars, galleries, indie theaters,
Speaker 1: I began to see a pattern. She was everywhere Sam
Speaker 1: had been lately, always in groups. I didn't know. The
Speaker 1: gnawing sense of exclusion grew, but so did a strange,
Speaker 1: analytical coldness. I started archiving details the time Sam claimed
Speaker 1: to be at Hackathon's the names he dropped. On a hunch,
Speaker 1: I asked Mara again, do you know any one who's
Speaker 1: met Emily? What's her last name? Mara paused, cautious. I
Speaker 1: think it's Foster. She was at Jamie's party a couple
Speaker 1: weeks back. I thought you two had met. We haven't,
Speaker 1: I replied, not officially, at least After that, I did
Speaker 1: what felt most natural. I threw myself into work, covering
Speaker 1: my anxiety in new installations and planning meetings, hoping routine
Speaker 1: might crowd out fear. But the more I focused on
Speaker 1: my world, the more glaring the absence of Sam in
Speaker 1: it felt. He still called on schedule, but the warmth
Speaker 1: was missing. When I offered to host another dinner, he said,
Speaker 1: might be tight this week demo season, every one's head's
Speaker 1: down at home together. The atmosphere was quietly brittle. I
Speaker 1: noticed flare ups of irritation in Sam over misplaced keys,
Speaker 1: unordered groceries, the clutter, of my stacks of catalogs, and
Speaker 1: just as quickly he'd apologize, eyes tight, sorry, brain fried.
Speaker 1: A last argument was about nothing, floor lamp wattage of
Speaker 1: all things. I tried to explain how new bulbs made
Speaker 1: the whole apartment look washed out, too bright clinical, He snapped,
Speaker 1: It's just a lamp. Ali. Some days I can't with
Speaker 1: all this drama. I almost said, who are you really
Speaker 1: angry at? But stopped myself. In all those moments, lost receipts,
Speaker 1: sidelong looks from friends, Sam's compulsive need to control his phone,
Speaker 1: the outline of another life kept coalescing just outside the
Speaker 1: frame of my own. But each time I went close
Speaker 1: to naming it, to letting myself feel the possibility of
Speaker 1: real betrayal, I stopped short. I told myself not to
Speaker 1: become the cliche the marriage worn through by suspicion, the
Speaker 1: jealous wife poking where nobody wants her. But at night,
Speaker 1: staring at the ceiling after Sam's soft breathing smoothed out,
Speaker 1: I couldn't banish the images Sam's face turning to her,
Speaker 1: the bar sign i'd never seen, flashing green. My routines
Speaker 1: frayed at the edges, the city felt less like home,
Speaker 1: more like a puzzle with critical pieces vanished. One last time,
Speaker 1: I searched for the right opening. After another run in
Speaker 1: with mutual friends who talked about a group hang I
Speaker 1: hadn't been invited to. I tried again, is it weird?
Speaker 1: We hardly see everyone together any more? Sam only shrugged
Speaker 1: and said, it's just the star up phase. You know,
Speaker 1: new people, new patterns, It's nothing. But his words had
Speaker 1: the shape of a closing door. I knew finally what
Speaker 1: that felt like. Not anger, but the slow loss of
Speaker 1: light as some one else steps into the space where
Speaker 1: you used to live. Still. I wasn't ready yet to
Speaker 1: break the silence. Something in me was waiting for a
Speaker 1: final note, proof that would move my uncertainty out of
Speaker 1: shadow and into the center of the room. And without
Speaker 1: quite knowing how, I was preparing for whatever I would
Speaker 1: find when I let myself look. The next week, I
Speaker 1: lived as if under water. Everything looked normal, muted, but
Speaker 1: there was a weighted lag between thought and action. At
Speaker 1: the gallery, I took extra time with each piece, over
Speaker 1: explaining details to staff and fussing over floral arrangements. I
Speaker 1: knew no collector would really notice. It was easier than
Speaker 1: going home early at night. I took the long way back,
Speaker 1: letting the city swallow me in after hours noise. Before
Speaker 1: before I ever keyed into the apartment, Sam was almost
Speaker 1: always home, but locked behind the bedroom door or hunched
Speaker 1: at the dining table in headphones, sharp shoulders bent in
Speaker 1: on themselves. I watched him, without trying to seem like
Speaker 1: I was watching. Any movement could set him off now,
Speaker 1: a dropped fork or a phone left charging in the kitchen.
Speaker 1: I started cataloging all the ways our lives had diverged.
Speaker 1: Cupboards full of spices unopened since last winter, a bottle
Speaker 1: of gin gathering dust, our date night drink abandoned because
Speaker 1: neither of us suggested cocktails any more. One Tuesday, home
Speaker 1: from a shattering board meeting, I heard music playing from
Speaker 1: the living room, an old playlist of hours, all mid
Speaker 1: two thousands pop and indie vocals. I paused in the entryway,
Speaker 1: listening for the older Sam, the one whose hands would
Speaker 1: tug mine into a kitchen dance. But when I rounded
Speaker 1: the corner, it was just his phone streaming alone. Sam
Speaker 1: on a call, voice pitched low. As soon as he
Speaker 1: saw me, he clicked it off. Sorry, work, thing. Need
Speaker 1: to focus, he said, and shut himself in the study
Speaker 1: for the evening. Shelving my own needs was an old habit,
Speaker 1: one that in easier years had felt like generosity, a
Speaker 1: gift we traded. Now it felt like shadow boxing that
Speaker 1: left only bruises of silence. Thursday night, Mara came over,
Speaker 1: bustling in with groceries and a bottle of orange wine.
Speaker 1: She texted, bringing emergency carbs. We curled on my sofa,
Speaker 1: unwrapping cheeses and roasted tomatoes, the kind of dinner that
Speaker 1: felt companionable by design. So she ventured, after a long silence,
Speaker 1: how's he doing really? Her voice was careful but direct,
Speaker 1: the kindness in it making my eyes sting. I don't know,
Speaker 1: I admitted. I keep telling myself it's the stress that
Speaker 1: this is just new job, new crowd. But then everything
Speaker 1: feels so deliberate, like he's putting me on the outside half.
Speaker 1: His stories don't make sense. She offered me a slice
Speaker 1: of bread, waiting and Emily, I shook my head. I
Speaker 1: still haven't met her. It's only ever her name dropped
Speaker 1: into some story. I caught myself the other day wanting
Speaker 1: to google her like a teenager Mara laughed, then sobered.
Speaker 1: What stops you? It feels pathetic, I guess, unworthy of
Speaker 1: us five years Mara, I shouldn't have to check who
Speaker 1: my husband s with, and if I find something what?
Speaker 1: Then her hand covered mine firm. Finding out is better
Speaker 1: than living in the fog ali. If it's nothing, you'll know.
Speaker 1: If it's not well, you're not meant to keep carrying
Speaker 1: it all yourself. There was a knock at the door
Speaker 1: before I could answer. Sam's voice, muffled but cheerful, preceded
Speaker 1: him as he came in. Hey, Hey, sorry, I thought
Speaker 1: you were out late, he said, unwinding a scarf, dropping
Speaker 1: his duffel by the shoe rack. I forced a smile.
Speaker 1: He planted a brief kiss on my head, then lit up,
Speaker 1: seeing Mara why night should have known. He never sat,
Speaker 1: just hovered in the threshold. Don't let her work you
Speaker 1: too late, Mar. He was gone before she could answer,
Speaker 1: door clicking behind him. We listened as he set up
Speaker 1: in the office. Sam King of Transparency, now locked away
Speaker 1: Nightly that night, after Mara left, I hovered outside his office,
Speaker 1: listening to muted laughter from his headphones. I knocked, soft,
Speaker 1: then louder. He opened the door, one ear bud falling free.
Speaker 1: What's up, Ali, I peered in His code editor covered
Speaker 1: the screen, but in the task bar a chat window blinked.
Speaker 1: Just wanted to know if you're coming to bed soon,
Speaker 1: I asked, knowing how needy it sounded. Give me a bit,
Speaker 1: got to ship this, he said. The door closed again,
Speaker 1: softly but firmly. I returned to our bedroom and lay awake,
Speaker 1: scrolling through my own cat for the week. He didn't
Speaker 1: tell me when he was coming or going any more.
Speaker 1: The certainty that used to be our default was eroding,
Speaker 1: now replaced by updates, given as an afterthought, always with
Speaker 1: just enough detail to keep me at bay. Friday afternoon,
Speaker 1: I spilled coffee on a file and had to run
Speaker 1: home to change. The apartment was empty. Sam's jackets slung
Speaker 1: over a chair. Without really thinking, I checked the pockets,
Speaker 1: looking for my own lost ear buds. I told myself
Speaker 1: there was nothing but receipts, most for takeout curry Palace,
Speaker 1: Red Bean Cafe, and one from Botanical at midnight, a
Speaker 1: cocktail bar I'd never heard of. I laid out each slip,
Speaker 1: studying time stamps, all late, all past when he'd claimed
Speaker 1: to be at the office. Instead of anger, I felt
Speaker 1: a grim resignation. I snapped photos for my own records,
Speaker 1: then tucked everything back before he could notice. Later that night,
Speaker 1: over cold take out, I tried, let's do something this
Speaker 1: week end, just us, no work, no phone. What do
Speaker 1: you think, Sam glanced at me, already distracted by notifications. Ah,
Speaker 1: I've got a demo crunch. Maybe next week. You said
Speaker 1: that last week. He set his phone down, lips tight.
Speaker 1: I'm sorry, Arlie. I don't know what you want me
Speaker 1: to say. We're both busy. Why are you acting weird lately?
Speaker 1: The accusation was sharper than I'd expected, and it stunned me. Silent,
Speaker 1: I swallowed the old habit of explaining myself instead, I'm
Speaker 1: not acting weird. I just miss you, He sighed, long
Speaker 1: and slow. I know, I'm just maxed. I just need
Speaker 1: some space to get through launch. Okay, I nodded, pushing
Speaker 1: rice around my plate. The rest of the night trailed
Speaker 1: off in small, separate silences. The next morning, I followed
Speaker 1: whim coffee at my favorite bakery alone, watching people whose
Speaker 1: lives seemed so much simpler. A faint impulse kept summoning
Speaker 1: my phone. Look up the Greenfinch's calendar. Check who's posting
Speaker 1: from that bar? But I resisted surveillance. Wasn't who I
Speaker 1: wanted to be. Lena called while I was windows shopping,
Speaker 1: cheerful and rushing, asking still on for Sunday sayings at
Speaker 1: my place? I promised, yes, grateful for a friend who
Speaker 1: always said things in absolute. You should bring Sam, she offered,
Speaker 1: haven't seen enough of his face lately. He's still fun.
Speaker 1: The question landed wrong. All I could think was the
Speaker 1: lingering image of Sam's closed office, his laughter for some
Speaker 1: one else echoing through a wall. I'll ask, I said,
Speaker 1: knowing I wouldn't. I told myself over and over that
Speaker 1: these signs could be read a dozen ways if you
Speaker 1: lined up my own gallery hours, my bursts of obsession
Speaker 1: with an installation. Couldn't Sam make the same complaints about
Speaker 1: feeling second? Yet the difference was all in the way
Speaker 1: our worlds had separated, adual, pulling away, so smooth that
Speaker 1: you hardly noticed until you woke up in someone else's story.
Speaker 1: One evening, I dressed for an opening, indecisive in front
Speaker 1: of the mirror, every dress either too formal or too casual.
Speaker 1: I used to send Sam pictures for his vote, Which
Speaker 1: one do you hate? Knowing he'd always pick the wildest print,
Speaker 1: just to make me blush to night, I sent a
Speaker 1: photo half out of habit, no reply. I left without waiting.
Speaker 1: Walking down Queen Street, I called Matt, Sam's business partner,
Speaker 1: under some pretext about inviting both to a gallery preview.
Speaker 1: Matt sounded distracted, then apologetic. I don't think Sam will
Speaker 1: be free for a while. He's more with the new committee.
Speaker 1: Emily and those guys are really driving the social side.
Speaker 1: I've mostly been remote, Honestly, the way Matt said, those guys,
Speaker 1: casual but not unguarded, told me whatever was going on.
Speaker 1: Matt was outside it too, maybe not completely in the dark,
Speaker 1: but not complicit. At the gallery, I pressed for details
Speaker 1: with the tech people. No one had anything but vague
Speaker 1: praise for Sam and his crew, or dodged specifics entirely.
Speaker 1: The sense of disconnection was nearly physical. A day later,
Speaker 1: I walked past forty three Southfield ride share address in memory,
Speaker 1: as if the neighborhood itself might give up hints. It
Speaker 1: was a nondescript building, no placard, only an intercom and
Speaker 1: three mail boxes. A bike leaned locked to the railing
Speaker 1: two Amazon packages stacked by the door. It was easy
Speaker 1: to imagine an entire hidden life behind a door, bell,
Speaker 1: routines and laughter I'd never see. I felt both foolish
Speaker 1: and desperate, a spy without a plan. That same night,
Speaker 1: I trailed Sam's digital shadow again, checking Instagram tags, friend
Speaker 1: of friend posts moments where someone else's camera swept over
Speaker 1: a group at a bar. Once I found a cheers
Speaker 1: to launch post from a crowded bar, and there was Sam,
Speaker 1: half obscured, but in the thick of it, faced tipped
Speaker 1: toward a dark haired woman laughing. I counted glasses on
Speaker 1: the table, named other faces by their tags. None were
Speaker 1: his typical friends. I d maed Mara spot the marathon coder.
Speaker 1: I attached a screenshot. She replied instantly, that's not Matt.
Speaker 1: Is that Emily don't know? I wrote, hand shaking, but
Speaker 1: he said he was with Matt. I didn't want Mara
Speaker 1: to spell out what was suddenly glaringly obvious. Sam was
Speaker 1: building a life that didn't need me in it. I
Speaker 1: lingered in these circles, unwilling to act, but unable to
Speaker 1: look away. Sometimes I hoped the proof would just appear.
Speaker 1: Something undeniable. That would give me permission to finally ask
Speaker 1: the questions churning inside me. Until then, I hovered at
Speaker 1: the edge, cataloging patterns, inventing new explanations for every fresh
Speaker 1: slight on impulse, I invited Sam to quiet Thursday dinner
Speaker 1: at Lola's. It was an old haunt for US Italian
Speaker 1: food and soft lamplight, perfect for talking when things felt raw.
Speaker 1: He agreed with a bland Sure, I'll make it work.
Speaker 1: For an hour, we almost found each other again. Sam
Speaker 1: was animated, chatting about an investor pitch between courses. I
Speaker 1: noticed his phone buzz three times, and each time he glanced,
Speaker 1: face clouding. At last, a message came in and he frowned,
Speaker 1: typing rapidly. Sorry, team drama, he said. Emily says, we
Speaker 1: double booked demo day with her old company. The tone,
Speaker 1: frustrated but oddly personal, jarred me. I tried, carefully, you
Speaker 1: and Emily seem close, he shrugged. She's the only one
Speaker 1: keeping the project moving some days. She's intense, But honestly,
Speaker 1: you'd like a hustle. Promise you'll meet her soon. Why haven't, I?
Speaker 1: I asked, trying to sound light. He hesitated, then gave
Speaker 1: half a smile. You know how it is, new people,
Speaker 1: weird dynamic. We'll do a group thing after launch. After dinner,
Speaker 1: he lingered longer than usual for a walk home. He
Speaker 1: even reached for my hand, something he hadn't done in weeks.
Speaker 1: I was so startled by the gesture I almost cried.
Speaker 1: For a moment the old safety returned. At home, he
Speaker 1: kissed me softly for real. Thanks, Ali, he murmured. I
Speaker 1: wanted to believe it was all just pressure, that I
Speaker 1: had gotten lost in a spiral of my own making.
Speaker 1: But as I hung up our coats, a slip of
Speaker 1: paper fluttered out of his pocket, A receipt from the
Speaker 1: wild Flower. The date stamped on it was last Saturday.
Speaker 1: Sam had told me he was at the office all day.
Speaker 1: More than that two entrees, one white wine, and what
Speaker 1: looked like a shared dessert. I copied the details onto
Speaker 1: a notepad. The habit now practiced, date time story told
Speaker 1: what evidence didn't match, a ledger of doubt. That week end,
Speaker 1: I ran into Jamie at the market. She greeted me
Speaker 1: with hugs and boisterous, performative cheer. You could always tell
Speaker 1: when Jamie was hiding gossip by how broad the smile got. So,
Speaker 1: how's queen code? She asked, using one of Sam's old
Speaker 1: nicknames for his crew. Saw you and Sam have been
Speaker 1: ghosts lately. For a second, I wavered, We've both been swamped.
Speaker 1: I barely know who he hangs with these days, she grinned, suddenly, sly, Well,
Speaker 1: off the record. Emily's pretty cool, little intense for me,
Speaker 1: but not what I expected. Have you met? I didn't
Speaker 1: let myself WinCE, Not yet, he says soon. Jamie's eyebrows arched. Well,
Speaker 1: they seemed tight, all those late nights and work drinks,
Speaker 1: start up love triangles right. Her tone was light, meant
Speaker 1: to tease, but the words landed heavy. I knew then
Speaker 1: people were noticing. Whatever I was circling around in private
Speaker 1: was visible to any one looking. That night, I let
Speaker 1: myself open a map and plotted every bar, every unusual address,
Speaker 1: every charge. The pattern was unmistakable. Thursdays at a bar
Speaker 1: near Emily's part of town, Saturdays somewhere New, always with
Speaker 1: a late night food delivery at his computer. The only
Speaker 1: constant in all his stories was Emily. When Sam returned
Speaker 1: late that night, smelling of a new cologne, he found
Speaker 1: me curled up with my notes. He cocked his head,
Speaker 1: curious organizing the next big exhibit, just lists, I replied,
Speaker 1: closing the pad. He watched me for a second, as
Speaker 1: if weighing how much he wanted to ask. Instead, he
Speaker 1: shuffled off to his office, headphones back in place. A
Speaker 1: week later, he missed my first solo curated opening and
Speaker 1: invited him weeks ahead. He'd RSVPD with a joke and
Speaker 1: a smile. On the night itself, he texted mid evening,
Speaker 1: shit exploded here Emily and I got stuck on a
Speaker 1: deploy break a leg. Love you. After the event, photographer
Speaker 1: caught me staring, half smiling at the door that never opened.
Speaker 1: In the background, friends whispered apologies for Sam's absence. They're
Speaker 1: pity warmer than I wanted. I couldn't sleep after replaying
Speaker 1: each small moment, each split in our life. Even my
Speaker 1: dreams had become procedural, trying to unlock Sam's phone or
Speaker 1: decode some message before he vanished into the crowd. The
Speaker 1: next morning, I asked, directly, breaking the pattern for the
Speaker 1: first time, are you happy, Sam? He looked startled, but
Speaker 1: played for time, sipping coffee. I am just stressed stressed
Speaker 1: or the word stalled, strangled. He shrugged eyes wary, Ali,
Speaker 1: if something's wrong, just tell me. I bit my lip.
Speaker 1: I want us to be close. It feels like you're
Speaker 1: somewhere else lately. Sam hesitated, then pulled me into a hug.
Speaker 1: It's not you. I'm sorry. I've been in my a
Speaker 1: I'm just burnt. Let's fix it, okay. I nodded, even
Speaker 1: as my chest hollowed, always the feeling of almost but
Speaker 1: never touching the real answer. One afternoon, while ordering lunch
Speaker 1: to the gallery, I noticed my credit card had flagged
Speaker 1: an unfamiliar charge forty five dollars at a bootique called Loop.
Speaker 1: I hadn't shopped there in six months. On a hunch,
Speaker 1: I walked over on my lunch break. The saleswoman beamed
Speaker 1: welcome back, She said, loved that necklace Sam picked out
Speaker 1: last week. Hope she liked it. I swallowed pulse, rabbiting.
Speaker 1: It was a gift, pretty gold leaf design. He said,
Speaker 1: it matched her colors. He seemed sweet. She frowned slightly.
Speaker 1: Are you? I smiled tightly, just curious. That evening, Sam
Speaker 1: came home late again. I looked at his neck for
Speaker 1: once at a faint mark, a hint of a perfume
Speaker 1: I didn't own. My skin crawled. I didn't ask about
Speaker 1: the necklace. I wanted to see if he'd ever mention it.
Speaker 1: He never did. Instead, it became a test, a wedge.
Speaker 1: Would he mention any new expense, any new friend, any
Speaker 1: piece of his life that now seemed stored away, out
Speaker 1: of reach. The answer consistently was no. By now I
Speaker 1: knew only one thing for sure. Whatever the answer, I
Speaker 1: would soon need to stop pretending I didn't already know.
Speaker 1: I didn't look up when Sam came in late that night,
Speaker 1: the door's gentle thud betraying a deliberate quietness. I sat
Speaker 1: curled on the couch, knees tight to my chest. The
Speaker 1: records and receipts i'd quietly amassed arranged in a private
Speaker 1: tableau on the coffee table. My phone glowed next to me.
Speaker 1: The captured Instagram story paused on the woman's half smile.
Speaker 1: Sam just an arm's length away in the frame. He
Speaker 1: started to speak a brief, familiar greeting, but must have
Speaker 1: seen my posture and changed his mind. He drifted past
Speaker 1: me to the kitchen, the clatter of a glass and
Speaker 1: slow water running under cutting the site. I let my
Speaker 1: gaze linger on the outline of his shoes by the door,
Speaker 1: one untied, the fray in its lace, catching the hallway light.
Speaker 1: Every day mess, but nothing about this was every day
Speaker 1: any more. I barely slept, every hour, marked by the
Speaker 1: hum of Sam's movements in the next room. Once I
Speaker 1: heard his phone buzz closer than usual, I imagined the name
Speaker 1: on his screen, the tone of the message that would
Speaker 1: make him smile into the dark. At some point near dawn,
Speaker 1: I slipped from under the covers and into the bathroom,
Speaker 1: splashing my face again and again, as if I could
Speaker 1: jolt myself into clarity. In the steamy mirror, my own
Speaker 1: face stared back, drawn and unfamiliar. I listened for his
Speaker 1: breathing down the hall, steady, unaware, indifferent. The next morning,
Speaker 1: filtered in brittle and gray, the gallery was between shows,
Speaker 1: so I had nowhere I needed to be an unusual
Speaker 1: and dangerous freedom. Sam moved quietly, his steps exaggeratedly soft,
Speaker 1: like he might wake a wild animal. He poured two
Speaker 1: coffees morning. He offered a practiced cheeriness. I nodded, wrapping
Speaker 1: my hands around the mug. His gaze darted anywhere but me.
Speaker 1: His thumb kept returning to his phone, spinning it absently.
Speaker 1: He wore a new shirt, had never seen collar, crisp
Speaker 1: colors bright against his skin. For a split second, I
Speaker 1: almost asked about it, where it came from, who picked
Speaker 1: it out. Instead, I focused on the tag, poking out
Speaker 1: the back, uncut anything on to day. He tried, as
Speaker 1: if routine could paint over silence, emails, some planning. I lied.
Speaker 1: I wanted to see if he'd ask about my opening,
Speaker 1: about our dinner, about what I'd found, but the moment passed.
Speaker 1: He hesitated, then leaned over for a distracted kiss. His
Speaker 1: lips landed on my cheek, light as a napkin brushed
Speaker 1: away after a meal. I'll be late, big push before demo,
Speaker 1: same line, different day. Before I could answer, he was
Speaker 1: gone back to his phone, keys clattering on their hook.
Speaker 1: As soon as the door closed, quiet expanded. I tidied
Speaker 1: for no reason, loaded the dish washer, wiped invisible smudges
Speaker 1: from the glass coffee table. The record's eyed gathered time lines, receipts,
Speaker 1: screen shots demanded my attention. They felt like evidence not
Speaker 1: just of his absence, but of how much time I
Speaker 1: had spent trying not to know. The rest of the
Speaker 1: morning slipped by in listless cycles. I couldn't bring myself
Speaker 1: to eat, but forced down toast and answered Mara's text
Speaker 1: on autopilot, surviving might need a reminder how she sent
Speaker 1: back a single heart. Around noon, sunlight picked out dust
Speaker 1: on the rug. I carried my mug to the window,
Speaker 1: city noise seeping in. Across the street. An elderly man
Speaker 1: washed his stoop for the second time that week, the
Speaker 1: ordinary in his sharp against the churn in my chest.
Speaker 1: I watched for a long time, the scene, repeating and repeating,
Speaker 1: until I finally broke my vigil. Everything that had seemed
Speaker 1: innocuous became suspicious by association, assent, a receipt, the clang
Speaker 1: of Sam's messenger bag as he left each morning. I
Speaker 1: moved through the apartment with new caution, aware of how
Speaker 1: much space he now occupied even in his absence. Small
Speaker 1: things got to me. The way he'd started storing his
Speaker 1: charger on my side of the bed, his hoodie taking
Speaker 1: over my chair. It was as if he had re
Speaker 1: arranged the map of our home without my consent, leaving
Speaker 1: markers of an allegiance. I hadn't been offered that evening,
Speaker 1: just before he was due home, I sent Mara a message,
Speaker 1: need back up? Can you come over? She didn't ask questions,
Speaker 1: only replied on my way. We sat on the couch.
Speaker 1: The detritus of my research spread out between us. I
Speaker 1: laid it out for her, the overlapping charges, the mysterious addresses,
Speaker 1: the gallery d m the necklace. Mara listened, face tight,
Speaker 1: hands folded in her lap. Ali, this is a lot,
Speaker 1: she said, fire. It's not you inventing things. What do
Speaker 1: I even do with it? My voice caught barge into
Speaker 1: his life and demand answers. Wait for it to blow over.
Speaker 1: She shook her head. Certain, you're not crazy. This is happening,
Speaker 1: whether you name it or not. Her words settled over me,
Speaker 1: heavy but clarifying. For so long I'd been moving in circles,
Speaker 1: failing to admit what was visible to any one with
Speaker 1: clear sight, as if scripted. Sam texted late again, don't
Speaker 1: wait up. There was no apology, no question about my plans.
Speaker 1: That's your answer, Mara said, you need to talk to
Speaker 1: him soon. I nodded a slow resolve forming. We sat
Speaker 1: awhile longer, Mara rubbing my shoulder, telling a meaningless story
Speaker 1: about work drama until we both laughed, the forced cleansing kind.
Speaker 1: After she left, I paced the apartment. Each hour bled
Speaker 1: uneasily into the next. The longer he stayed away, the
Speaker 1: more my patience thinned into exhaustion, not from anger, but
Speaker 1: from the endless slotting anxiety of maybe not yet. Near midnight,
Speaker 1: his key turned in the lock. He came in with
Speaker 1: a gust of cold air and a stale scent of petuli,
Speaker 1: a perfume I couldn't place. Hay, he said, too bright?
Speaker 1: Did you eat? I watched him Unlacey's boots shaking off
Speaker 1: the night. His shirt was untucked, hair flattened, a flush
Speaker 1: on his cheek that didn't belong to a late night hackethon.
Speaker 1: He moved to kiss me, but I stepped back. We
Speaker 1: need to talk, I said, trying to keep my voice level.
Speaker 1: He glanced at the coffee table, at the dense stack
Speaker 1: of receipts and notes, and for a fleeting moment, a
Speaker 1: shadow of understanding flickered in his eyes. What's up, he asked,
Speaker 1: as if nothing were out of place. I took a breath.
Speaker 1: Don't not yet. He drew back, bracing himself on the
Speaker 1: edge of the arm chair. The silence now was it's
Speaker 1: neither comfortable nor accidental. I want you to tell me
Speaker 1: where you've been I started and with who I have receipts, Sam,
Speaker 1: the green Finch, the wild flower bars. I've never heard
Speaker 1: of food deliveries at two a m. Photos from friends
Speaker 1: where you're nowhere near Matt. I know about Emily. I
Speaker 1: know you gave her the necklace from loop. His expression
Speaker 1: crumpled a mixture of surprise and calculation. He didn't answer
Speaker 1: right away, so he said, finally, you've been tracking me.
Speaker 1: It was an attempt at outrage, a grasp of control.
Speaker 1: I didn't let it slide. I've been trying to make
Speaker 1: sense of the holes you left. All I've wanted is
Speaker 1: the truth. Were you ever going to tell me? Sam
Speaker 1: ran a hand through his hair, not quite meeting my eyes.
Speaker 1: His mouth worked once, then again, as if searching for
Speaker 1: the version of the story that would hurt least. It wasn't.
Speaker 1: He started, then stopped. It didn't mean another hesitation. Emily
Speaker 1: and I we just got close working on the project.
Speaker 1: It wasn't physical, not at first. I just she got
Speaker 1: what I was trying to do. You were always so
Speaker 1: busy with the gallery, and don't I interrupted, don't pretend
Speaker 1: this is about my job. He looked cornered, shoulders drawn up,
Speaker 1: as if trying to make himself smaller. It just happened.
Speaker 1: I don't know when I was lonely, I needed his
Speaker 1: voice thickened, and suddenly I felt a flash of pity
Speaker 1: that angered me more than any betrayal. You lied to
Speaker 1: me for months, You let me beg for scraps of
Speaker 1: your time while you built a life with her. My
Speaker 1: hands were trembling, but my words were steady. Every night
Speaker 1: you came home and made me feel like an outsider
Speaker 1: in my own marriage. Sam's expression turned defensive. You weren't around.
Speaker 1: You never noticed how hard it was for me to
Speaker 1: start over, to build something from nothing. Emily listened. She
Speaker 1: believed in the project when no one else would. You.
Speaker 1: You are always busy, distracted this gallery, those artists, never
Speaker 1: a moment left for me. A wave of indignation washed
Speaker 1: through me. I closed my eyes, fighting not to shout.
Speaker 1: I've always believed in you. I've supported every hair brand
Speaker 1: idea you wanted to chase. But what you did this
Speaker 1: isn't about stress, It's about trust. You didn't lose that
Speaker 1: you gave it away piece by piece. His face cracked,
Speaker 1: edges sagging, as if the mask could no longer hold.
Speaker 1: I didn't know how to stop. It started with drinks
Speaker 1: after work. Then she'd text me late, and it felt
Speaker 1: like someone actually got me for the first time in ages.
Speaker 1: I never meant to, but you did, I said, my
Speaker 1: voice flat. You chose this every day you woke up
Speaker 1: and decided to keep lying to me. He dropped onto
Speaker 1: the couch, head in his hands. For several moments. The
Speaker 1: only sound was his uneven breathing. When he finally looked up,
Speaker 1: his eyes were rimmed red. Desperate. I going to leave me.
Speaker 1: It took all my strength to answer calmly. I think
Speaker 1: you already left. I just finally caught up. He reached out,
Speaker 1: but I stepped back, numbness winning out over sorrow. Don't
Speaker 1: I said not to night. He stared at the floor,
Speaker 1: hands slack in his lap, wordlessly. I walked down the hall,
Speaker 1: closing the bedroom door behind me. I could hear him
Speaker 1: moving restlessly in the living room, cleaning up receipts, whispering
Speaker 1: apologies that never quite reached me. The bed felt cavernous,
Speaker 1: too wide for sleep. By the time, sunlight squeezed between
Speaker 1: the blinds. I was already up, packing a small overnight bag, clothes,
Speaker 1: laptop essentials. Sam sat at the kitchen table, shoulders hunched, untouched,
Speaker 1: coffee steaming beside him. I think you should go, I
Speaker 1: said quietly, not needing to repeat myself or explain. I
Speaker 1: need space. I'll text you when it's time to pick
Speaker 1: up your things. He stared at me for a moment,
Speaker 1: eyes searching, then nodded. He retreated into the bedroom, filling
Speaker 1: his duffel with uncharacteristic efficiency. I sat on the edge
Speaker 1: of the sofa, feeling both hollow and unbearably heavy. When
Speaker 1: he left, he paused at the threshold, as if to
Speaker 1: say something final. Instead, he only nodded a faint, resigned gesture.
Speaker 1: Then he closed the door, the latch falling with a
Speaker 1: solid click. The apartment filled with an eerie stillness. I
Speaker 1: locked the door behind him and slid down with my
Speaker 1: back against the wood, every nerve singing with exhaustion. I
Speaker 1: texted Mara, fingers sluggish, he's gone. It's done. I moved
Speaker 1: through the apartment, sweeping scattered evidence of both our presences
Speaker 1: into piles. Sam's hoody, the receipts, my notes, I reset passwords,
Speaker 1: made a list of all the joint accounts to untangle,
Speaker 1: called the gallery to cancel my weak social plans, voice
Speaker 1: steady but monotone. One by one, I informed close friends,
Speaker 1: no explanations, only that Sam and I were taking space.
Speaker 1: Their understanding came in gentle replies, none prying, each quietly affirming.
Speaker 1: As dusk dropped through the windows, I showered, pulling on
Speaker 1: an old shirt and climbing into bed alone. The new
Speaker 1: emptiness both a wound and a kind of balm. I
Speaker 1: deleted his number from my phone, powered off every device,
Speaker 1: and let silence settle over me. Three days passed before
Speaker 1: I left the apartment for more than coffee or groceries.
Speaker 1: On the fourth morning, sunlight pooled at the window by
Speaker 1: the galley's front door. I unlocked the entrance for a delivery.
Speaker 1: The glass panel reflecting my figure sharp edged, Standing solitary
Speaker 1: for the first time in months, I didn't flinch at
Speaker 1: the sight. I looked, composed entirely my own. I straightened
Speaker 1: my shoulders, squared to the quiet that lay ahead, and
Speaker 1: opened the door wide. I stepped out onto the gallery
Speaker 1: stoop the street, half empty, shaves of late winter, bouncing
Speaker 1: off the wet pavements. The city was moving on quietly,
Speaker 1: as if it hadn't just witnessed the unmaking of my marriage.
Speaker 1: My reflection clung to the window even as I turned away.
Speaker 1: I focused on the movements spilling onto Queen Street, vendors
Speaker 1: setting up their flower carts, delivery bikes gliding past with
Speaker 1: determined purpose, anything but the echo of last night. Inside
Speaker 1: the air was brisk boxes from the latest collection stacked
Speaker 1: against the far wall. I busied myself unwrapping sculpture bases,
Speaker 1: sorting crumpled brown paper, and taping shipping labels, small physical tasks,
Speaker 1: the unfamiliar comfort of total control, no one but myself
Speaker 1: to answer to. There were emails to send, insurance forms
Speaker 1: to fill, a million things lined up to distract me.
Speaker 1: I let them. By the time my first appointment arrived,
Speaker 1: a shy young painter with impossible cheek bones, my voice
Speaker 1: sounded almost normal in my own ears. But every hour
Speaker 1: that past, the events from the night before kept intruding,
Speaker 1: less like memories and more like aftershocks, rippling through muscle
Speaker 1: and bone. One slip, a misread price, a painting mislabeled,
Speaker 1: and suddenly I'd find myself staring at my phone again,
Speaker 1: expecting on instinct to see a message from Sam, apologizing, explaining,
Speaker 1: promising to fix what couldn't be fixed. Nothing came. The
Speaker 1: first few friends who stopped by, eyes guarded and huggs
Speaker 1: gentle said, little Mara has promised, kept her questions to herself,
Speaker 1: only squeezing my hand in greeting, checking for bruises. I
Speaker 1: hadn't let show. Lena left a pastry box on my
Speaker 1: desk with a single line, note, you've got this. Jamie
Speaker 1: was the only one who attempted breezy normalcy, swiping through
Speaker 1: potential dates on an app while asking whether the new
Speaker 1: show theme should be rebirth or revenge. She made me
Speaker 1: laugh harder than I had in days, and I hugged
Speaker 1: her in gratitude before the gallery doors closed behind her.
Speaker 1: But as the gallery emptied out each evening, the apartment
Speaker 1: loomed larger, heavy, with a silence measured in missing keys,
Speaker 1: an absence carved into the pattern of my day. The
Speaker 1: space Sam had left, though tiny in some ways, was
Speaker 1: impossible to ignore. His books on the shelf, the creaking
Speaker 1: chair at the breakfast bar, and always that pair of
Speaker 1: shoes by the door I hadn't dared move. I found
Speaker 1: myself tracking his ghost, as if through a forest, each
Speaker 1: roomor clearing each familiar object a possible ambush. The second
Speaker 1: night alone, I cooked two servings out of habit, then
Speaker 1: quietly boxed. As for the fridge, I left it there unopened,
Speaker 1: a placeholder for something that wouldn't return. At night, I
Speaker 1: scrolled through my camera roll, half in mourning, half searching
Speaker 1: for proof that something good and substantial had really existed
Speaker 1: between us. By week's end, I had canceled every non
Speaker 1: essential obligation, canceling a gallery dinner Sam and I was
Speaker 1: supposed to co host, and leaving vague apology with the hosts.
Speaker 1: Family Thing can't make it. Only Mara knew the shape
Speaker 1: of family Thing. That following Saturday, music from the cafe
Speaker 1: below drifted upward as I prepped a new exhibit. Between
Speaker 1: lifting frames and marking floor spots, my mind ran wild
Speaker 1: across half finished thoughts. Why had I missed the signs?
Speaker 1: Were all our years together just a staging area for
Speaker 1: Sam's next act. There was an urge to rewrite everything backward,
Speaker 1: make all the good memories suspect, but I refused to
Speaker 1: go that far. If anything, the confusion just made each
Speaker 1: moment sharper, the layer of betrayal, sitting heavy atop the
Speaker 1: life we'd built, not erasing it, but warping its edges.
Speaker 1: I found my phone vibrating deep in a pocket I
Speaker 1: rarely used. The screen flashed with Sam's name. For a second,
Speaker 1: pure adrenaline shot through me. I nearly let it go,
Speaker 1: but some muscle memory took over and I answered, voice
Speaker 1: thin and measured. He spoke oke first, Alice, I just
Speaker 1: wanted to check in. I'm picking up some things tomorrow,
Speaker 1: if that's okay. A simple question, but nothing was simple
Speaker 1: any more. Yes, tell me what time, He paused, something
Speaker 1: catching in his breath. Mid afternoon. I'll be quick, won't
Speaker 1: bother you if you'd rather not see me. Some private
Speaker 1: war played out in his voice, not pleading exactly, but
Speaker 1: searching for ground he could safely stand on. For the
Speaker 1: first time, I noticed how tired he sounded. The brittle
Speaker 1: franticness stripped out, leaving only exhaustion. Text first, please, I
Speaker 1: replied quietly. I'll make sure I'm gone. He sighed, the
Speaker 1: sound both defeat and relief. Okay, thanks. I nearly hung
Speaker 1: up before the last volley, Alice, I'm so sorry, I
Speaker 1: mean it. There was no attempt at an excuse, no
Speaker 1: hope in the words, only a kind of desperate flailing.
Speaker 1: I know, I said, my voice steadier than I felt
Speaker 1: me too. We ended the call, I tucked the phone,
Speaker 1: faced and I did not cry. After he left. The
Speaker 1: next day, two bags a plastic bin of tangled cords.
Speaker 1: I went through the apartment, gathering what was his. I
Speaker 1: made a list of what remained, bank accounts to sort, subscriptions,
Speaker 1: to split, friends, to divide into columns labeled his mine
Speaker 1: shared businesslike emotion checked at the door. When I touched
Speaker 1: the stack of books beside the couch and found his
Speaker 1: old hoodie, I pressed my nose to it, inhaled, and
Speaker 1: placed it in the return pile. It took everything I
Speaker 1: had not to message him again, to not even check
Speaker 1: the social media networks, where our worlds had blurred and
Speaker 1: bled together. But the world didn't stop for heartbreak. The
Speaker 1: gallery needed prepping for the next show. Emils pinged deliveries
Speaker 1: arrived on Monday. The courier dropped off a crate with
Speaker 1: a sculpture so grotesque it was almost comical, and I
Speaker 1: found myself grinning at its unlikeliness. Later, Mara brought over soup.
Speaker 1: We watched an episode of an old show, commenting on
Speaker 1: the set design and actor's hair cuts. The conversation stayed light. Mara,
Speaker 1: who had once taken Sam's side in every debate, never
Speaker 1: questioned my silence about him, now simply letting the quiet
Speaker 1: ring clear. Still, the gaps were everywhere, in bed at night,
Speaker 1: in the half turned coffee mug in the way his
Speaker 1: absence reconfigured the narrative of our home. The most mundane tasks,
Speaker 1: paying the gas bill, buying groceries became acts of will,
Speaker 1: each one a small resistance to the pain of remembering
Speaker 1: the old routine. Sometimes I woke from dreams carried on
Speaker 1: the rhythm of Sam's breathing, only to find the other
Speaker 1: side of the bed cold and flat. The urge to
Speaker 1: call him would seize me, desperate and uninvited, but I
Speaker 1: stayed motionless, letting the longing crest and break in silence.
Speaker 1: A week after the confrontation, the city thowed a little,
Speaker 1: a false premonition of spring. I took a walk to
Speaker 1: the Green Finch for the first time. I entered, not
Speaker 1: to spy, but just to see The bar was smaller
Speaker 1: than I'd imagined, canted mirrors and taxidamie birds above the bottles.
Speaker 1: College kids laughed in the corner, oblivious to the ache
Speaker 1: that laced the air for me. For a few slow minutes,
Speaker 1: I let myself sit at the corner table, nursing a
Speaker 1: glass of wine. I studdied the room, searching its habitual
Speaker 1: customers for familiar faces. None appeared. I watched the bartender
Speaker 1: polish glasses, her hands quick and practiced. Did she know?
Speaker 1: Was I just another face in a universal story of
Speaker 1: places marked by what we lose? I left a decent
Speaker 1: tip and stepped out, eyes watering from the sun and
Speaker 1: more than the sun, and made myself walk home without
Speaker 1: looking back. I didn't see Sam again after that. The
Speaker 1: things he left behind half a sweater, a dry cleaning stub,
Speaker 1: a photo strip from a summer carnival sat in a drawer.
Speaker 1: The anger and hurt they inspired I had slowly cooling
Speaker 1: into something more manageable. My apartment grew quieter, yes, but
Speaker 1: also more my own. One afternoon, I went through my notes,
Speaker 1: the ledger of doubt. I'd built up artifacts of a
Speaker 1: conspiracy no longer mine to question. I slid them into
Speaker 1: a folder, labeled it, and tucked it behind stacks of
Speaker 1: old lease agreements in the hall closet. Later, I knew
Speaker 1: it would all seem less monumental, like clearing out the
Speaker 1: remnants of some testing ground that once posed as a
Speaker 1: forever home. It surprised me how easily new habits shuffled
Speaker 1: into place. I bought flowers, white peonies and blue thistle
Speaker 1: and filled the kitchen with them. I called Mara for
Speaker 1: lunch and let her talk about her new project's terrible lighting.
Speaker 1: I spent the evening pulling together the gallery spring show,
Speaker 1: each decision unshared mine exclusively. A letter arrived from Sam
Speaker 1: days after his final departure, and unsigned by anything but
Speaker 1: his familiar scrawl. Inside were apologies, no longer hedged, not rationalized,
Speaker 1: just apologies in the plaintive unfinished shape heart break takes
Speaker 1: on paper. I read it once, folded it, set it
Speaker 1: on the mantel, and left it there. When a draft
Speaker 1: curled its edge, I pressed it flat, but never moved
Speaker 1: it out of sight. The city kept changing outside the
Speaker 1: late winter suns, slipping into evening, new faces arranging themselves
Speaker 1: in the cafes and parks we once haunted routine rebuilt itself,
Speaker 1: clumsy but persistent. At night, I found myself humming, sometimes softly,
Speaker 1: a scrap of melody left over from the early days,
Speaker 1: surprised by my own voice. The next big exhibit at
Speaker 1: the gallery crowded my hours. Emails, installations, press releases, invitations
Speaker 1: flew out to every one, but Sam Habit nearly failed me.
Speaker 1: His name on the edge of my voice as I
Speaker 1: seated familiar guests, I caught myself half way through typing
Speaker 1: the old R S v P list, then deleted his adre,
Speaker 1: another act of letting go. There were moments, of course,
Speaker 1: when the old pain surged, passing a street corner we'd claimed,
Speaker 1: tripping over a phrase he'd once said, tying my laces
Speaker 1: as he used to do absent mindedly. Every instinct told
Speaker 1: me to turn toward the door, to expect him walking through, apologizing, promising,
Speaker 1: making small talk about art and algorithms. But he never came.
Speaker 1: In his absence, my own company grew again, roots pushing
Speaker 1: into corners untended for too long, the season drifted forward.
Speaker 1: On a grocery run, I saw Sam once across the
Speaker 1: street with Emily. They walked close together. Sam's laugh echoing,
Speaker 1: tired but open faced. He didn't notice me at first,
Speaker 1: but then, as if sensing something, glanced up and caught
Speaker 1: my eye. There was recognition, regret, and nothing more. I
Speaker 1: nodded brief and cool, and kept moving my feet, certain,
Speaker 1: my heart not as shaky as I'd feared. When I
Speaker 1: returned home, the rooms felt less like a void and
Speaker 1: more like possibility. There was freedom in the after, in
Speaker 1: rediscovering the patterns that made me whole before and could
Speaker 1: do so again. I thought about the years with Sam,
Speaker 1: neither erased nor hallowed, just changed, and let gratitude and
Speaker 1: loss intertwine, letting both pass through until only clarity remained.
Speaker 1: And so when a few mornings later the gallery opened
Speaker 1: early for a preview, the sunlight slanting just so across
Speaker 1: the wood floor, I found myself pausing again at the
Speaker 1: glass doors. My reflection looked back, steady and real, set
Speaker 1: against the city's geometric bustle. For a single, unbroken instant,
Speaker 1: I saw not what I'd lost, but what I still carried, resolve,
Speaker 1: the ability to begin, and a quiet, growing ease inside
Speaker 1: my own skin. I pushed open the door, the soft
Speaker 1: chime marking both an end and unmistakably a new beginning,
Speaker 1: and that is the end. Thank you for listening, and
Speaker 1: I will see you in the next one.