Speaker 1: Mark's key made its tired metallic rattle on our front door,
Speaker 1: barely audible beneath the hum of city traffic outside. It
Speaker 1: was late, half past ten on a Friday, and I
Speaker 1: was perched at the edge of the bed, staring at
Speaker 1: the open suitcase whose lopsided zipper grinned up at me
Speaker 1: in accusation. A pair of sandals stuck out, the heel
Speaker 1: absurdly jaunty for the weather. I couldn't remember if I'd
Speaker 1: packed them because I needed them or because I didn't
Speaker 1: know what else to do with my hands. We were
Speaker 1: supposed to leave for Toronto in the morning. Mark's treat.
Speaker 1: A little, let's get out of the city before you
Speaker 1: dissolve under your next mountain of deadlines, he'd said just
Speaker 1: three days ago, his mouth pressed against the line where
Speaker 1: my hair met my neck. But on Wednesday, he started
Speaker 1: getting cagey about our plans, said a work conference had materialized,
Speaker 1: something he absolutely couldn't reschedule, babe, I'm sorry. By Thursday evening,
Speaker 1: he barely bothered with the explanations, just said, Let's put
Speaker 1: a pin in things for now. Believe me, I hate
Speaker 1: it as much as you do. Tonight he'd texted me
Speaker 1: at seven, then at nine, both times running late, then
Speaker 1: even later. Don't wait up if you're tired. Love you,
Speaker 1: came the last one. I didn't reply. The apartment was
Speaker 1: as silent as I could make it, leaving only the
Speaker 1: distant quiet churn of refrigerator coils and the muffled patter
Speaker 1: of rain against the fire escape. Mark slipped in with
Speaker 1: his usual sheepish smile, backpack slung loose over one shoulder.
Speaker 1: He wore his good blazer. Something about the set of
Speaker 1: his shoulders told me he might have been anxious, but
Speaker 1: his face was all brightness and practiced fatigue. I almost
Speaker 1: wanted to believe it. In his right hand, a tall,
Speaker 1: cream-coloured coffee cup with a sunny yellow band wrapped around it. Nectar,
Speaker 1: printed in curling retro script. I passed that little place
Speaker 1: a dozen times walking through the lower end. It was
Speaker 1: the new, artisanal spot where journalists held meetings and twenty-somethings
Speaker 1: huddled with Macbooks, and Mark and I had joked about
Speaker 1: their nine-dollar lattes. We'd never bothered going together. He set
Speaker 1: the cup on our dining table, the logo turned away.
Speaker 1: I caught the faintest blush of colour on the disposable
Speaker 1: sleeve as he dropped his keys, soft, muted pink, smudged
Speaker 1: at the curve. Lipstick. not my shade, not even close. Hey, you,
Speaker 1: he said softly, rounding the table, that jittery warmth in
Speaker 1: his voice that used to mean he'd brought some little
Speaker 1: surprise from the bakery in Milton. He bent down to
Speaker 1: kiss me, his lips gentle and familiar, but there was
Speaker 1: something odd, clawing layered above his usual dry, woody cologne,
Speaker 1: an expensive, floral sweetness that lingered against my skin. I
Speaker 1: glanced at the coffee cup again. Rough night, I asked,
Speaker 1: trying to keep my tone neutral, light. Another last-minute conference,
Speaker 1: I assume. He smiled without looking at me, unspooling the
Speaker 1: scarf from his neck. Something like that. Sorry, babe. Promise
Speaker 1: I'll make it up to you. Maybe we can still
Speaker 1: catch that weekend, yeah. Maybe, I said, letting the word hang.
Speaker 1: My hands felt cold. You want to talk about it?
Speaker 1: But Mark's eyes darted to the half-packed suitcase at my feet.
Speaker 1: Let's just Let's not tonight, okay? I need a shower.
Speaker 1: Tomorrow I'll fill you in, you'll laugh, I swear. He
Speaker 1: squeezed my shoulder and without another word disappeared down the hall.
Speaker 1: I stared at his empty coffee cup, the lipstick stain
Speaker 1: catching the overhead light, the sleeve still warm. My fingers
Speaker 1: curled around it when I thought he was gone, and heart-thudding,
Speaker 1: I slipped the sleeve quietly into my jeans pocket. For
Speaker 1: a moment I stood rooted there, listening to the hiss
Speaker 1: of water behind the bathroom door, not trusting what I
Speaker 1: was feeling. Mark had always loved to surprise me. He'd
Speaker 1: always been gregarious, indulgent, sometimes secretive, yes, but never about us.
Speaker 1: He'd never smelled like another woman before. I told myself
Speaker 1: it didn't matter, that we'd just grown busy and out
Speaker 1: of sync, the way adults do after eight years together.
Speaker 1: But as I turned the lipstick-stained sleeve over in my hand,
Speaker 1: my heart wouldn't settle. Not tonight. In the years since
Speaker 1: we'd first met, Mark was always the gravity in the room,
Speaker 1: the person everyone drifted toward at parties, his energy irresistible.
Speaker 1: I was the one who left early, but not before
Speaker 1: helping clear plates, friendly and reserved by preference, someone who
Speaker 1: believed that watching other people connect was safer than letting
Speaker 1: myself be too much. We met at a gallery opening
Speaker 1: for a mutual friend, some tiny place overrun with abstract
Speaker 1: canvases and pretentious wine. Mark, tall and absurdly earnest, cornered
Speaker 1: me in front of a piece I'd secretly hated, a
Speaker 1: blue and yellow riot that looked like an accident. Do
Speaker 1: you see what I see? he said, chin jutting toward
Speaker 1: the painting. I started to give him the diplomatic answer,
Speaker 1: but he overrode me, honest and grinning. It's awful, right?
Speaker 1: Like marga hats after a thunderstorm. We both laughed, and
Speaker 1: at the end of the night, I gave him my number.
Speaker 1: albeit with the caveat that if he brought up NFTs,
Speaker 1: I'd block him instantly. He still jokes about it. Since then,
Speaker 1: our life had wound itself tight around Brooklyn. Our small
Speaker 1: but sunny walk up above Prospect, weekend movie marathons, late
Speaker 1: night walks in the park after deadlines, the art museum
Speaker 1: membership we never quite cancelled. We'd taken on the city together,
Speaker 1: built a circle of friends who became our surrogate family,
Speaker 1: living rooms full of home-cooked food and laughter. Mark always
Speaker 1: in the kitchen doling out cocktails or cracking jokes. It
Speaker 1: was Mark who drew people in and who made sure
Speaker 1: I never felt like an outsider. He'd slip his hand
Speaker 1: into mine during dinners when the teetering plastic chairs and
Speaker 1: the crush of voices made my chest tight. He was,
Speaker 1: in those moments, exactly what I needed, a little buffer
Speaker 1: from life's sharpness. Our strengths as a couple were founded
Speaker 1: in those routines. Loyalty, laughter, structure built on rituals. These
Speaker 1: were the glue. When I started freelancing as a designer,
Speaker 1: wavering over income and deadlines, he cooked pasta and edited resumes.
Speaker 1: When Mark left his comfortable but dead-end IT job for
Speaker 1: project management at a tech incubator, I cheered him on
Speaker 1: even as he regularly worked himself into migraines. Still, there
Speaker 1: were always vulnerable spots. My social anxiety meant I sometimes
Speaker 1: bilayed on big outings, apologised too much for needing space.
Speaker 1: and Mark's way of managing stress was to dive into
Speaker 1: work and occasionally hide there. Just part of being grown-ups,
Speaker 1: we always said. Life became a rotation of intense weeks,
Speaker 1: late-night editing sprints for me, urgent launches for Mark. Lately, though,
Speaker 1: it was more than that. Mark's sprints felt endless. Our
Speaker 1: shared creative weekends had dwindled to the point that months
Speaker 1: had passed since we'd last drawn together at the kitchen table.
Speaker 1: Mark had skipped the last two Sunday farmer's markets. his favorite,
Speaker 1: not mine, with vague excuses about deadlines and team building.
Speaker 1: I hadn't thought much of it. Being adults meant you
Speaker 1: missed things. Our families rarely visited. Mine phoned a few
Speaker 1: times a month from Connecticut, his texted every so often
Speaker 1: from upstate. The emotional center of our life was really
Speaker 1: the friends circle, the dinners, art nights, birthdays, and brunches
Speaker 1: that bent time around us. When the world turned small
Speaker 1: during the first years of our relationships, Mark became my anchor.
Speaker 1: I never thought to worry. It wasn't until two weeks
Speaker 1: ago at dinner at Tessa and Eric's loft that I
Speaker 1: felt a crack. Someone made a joke about Mark's secret shift,
Speaker 1: managing a team of benevolent algorithms, and for some reason
Speaker 1: his tone turned clipped. His laughter stopped. He glanced at me,
Speaker 1: almost cold, and moved the conversation to a safer topic.
Speaker 1: I brushed it off as stress. But sometimes I replay
Speaker 1: that moment. my fork scraping an empty plate, and wonder
Speaker 1: if that was when the distance started to show. Mark
Speaker 1: came home late again on a Tuesday, whistling an off-key
Speaker 1: melody and dropping a paper bag onto the counter as
Speaker 1: he recounted another work event. He fished out a bottle
Speaker 1: of Merlot, my favourite, a peace offering. Smells like charity
Speaker 1: in here, he announced, pushing off his coat. Everyone at
Speaker 1: that fundraiser tonight was absolutely plastered by eight. He went on,
Speaker 1: launching into a rambling story that seemed to stumble between
Speaker 1: actual facts. A silent auction, a tech company's CEO, too
Speaker 1: many finger sandwiches. Something didn't fit. I pressed my tongue
Speaker 1: against my teeth, trying to remember if the event he
Speaker 1: was describing was the same charity auction I'd talked about
Speaker 1: last week. Did you see the installation piece in the
Speaker 1: main hall? I asked, hiding my curiosity under a smile.
Speaker 1: Mark blinked, then shrugged. I probably did, honestly. Everyone was
Speaker 1: treating everything like a coat rack. He'd left the apartment
Speaker 1: earlier that evening in a blue shirt and navy tie.
Speaker 1: Now the tie was gone, shirt still crisp, sleeves folded
Speaker 1: neatly up. I pointed at his open collar. Lose your
Speaker 1: tie to a good cause. He looked at me, then
Speaker 1: barked a bright, airy laugh. Left it in the Uber,
Speaker 1: I think. Too much wine. I'm getting old, seer. I
Speaker 1: bit back a joke of my own, something about him
Speaker 1: needing a secret identity with all these events, and watched
Speaker 1: as he swept around the kitchen, wiping surfaces that didn't
Speaker 1: need it. I told myself not to overthink every answer,
Speaker 1: not to spiral, but the colours didn't add up. His
Speaker 1: story was like a painting with someone else's signature in
Speaker 1: the corner. That night, while Mark showered, I rifled through
Speaker 1: a stack of mail on the hallway credenza, just looking
Speaker 1: for the gas bill, I told myself. But something new
Speaker 1: slipped free, a thin, plastic ID card dangling from a
Speaker 1: navy lanyard. the logo of a nearby community centre embossed
Speaker 1: in white. Mark's photo, short, forced smile, the light catching
Speaker 1: his hair differently than most work badges. Volunteer staff, it read.
Speaker 1: I stared at it, fidgeting the lanyard between my fingertips.
Speaker 1: Mark had never mentioned volunteering. I placed it neatly back
Speaker 1: in the pile and tried to let it go. Later,
Speaker 1: lying in our darkened bedroom, Listening to the distant clatter
Speaker 1: of late-night cabs beneath our window, I felt Mark slide
Speaker 1: under the sheets. He curled behind me, familiar, warm, heavy.
Speaker 1: I wondered what it meant to trust someone. Maybe I
Speaker 1: really was just being paranoid, finding clues where there were none.
Speaker 1: The following Saturday, I found myself scrolling through our shared
Speaker 1: Google calendar while Mark ran an errand. Our two work
Speaker 1: schedules overlapped so often, that coordinated planning was the only
Speaker 1: way to survive, though he'd become less diligent the past
Speaker 1: few months. Where Mark used to plant cute emojis beside
Speaker 1: our date nights or slip in reminders for takeout, now
Speaker 1: the events were all business. Launch review, all-day conference, volunteer,
Speaker 1: CC pantry, meet, Nicole S., none of these were familiar.
Speaker 1: As I clicked around, I realized that nearly every block
Speaker 1: from the last three weekends was titled conference. but none
Speaker 1: said where or with whom. A few were marked with
Speaker 1: recurring events at the Eastside Community Centre, some overlapping with
Speaker 1: timeline gaps when he'd cancelled on me. It might have
Speaker 1: been innocent. Maybe Mark wanted to shield me from his overload,
Speaker 1: keep our lives less tangled. Still, I wondered. That night,
Speaker 1: our apartment hosted dinner for our friend Circle. Natalie and Chloe,
Speaker 1: Tessa and Eric, and Philippa, hair wild and laughter always
Speaker 1: too loud. Mark always loved these nights. He played host,
Speaker 1: hustling plates, mixing Negronis, goading everyone into rounds of ironic
Speaker 1: party games. It was always his way to keep me included,
Speaker 1: a subtle little nudge whenever the room's focus slipped. But
Speaker 1: tonight it was different. During a lull when I got
Speaker 1: up to clear glasses, the conversation drifted. I overheard snippets
Speaker 1: from the kitchen as Mark and Tessa talked about Saturday brunch,
Speaker 1: their voices low, energy bright and conspiratorial. Chloe chimed in,
Speaker 1: something about reservations. I poked my head in and smiled.
Speaker 1: You know, I have a brilliant almond-quassar connection if you
Speaker 1: want pastries. A sudden little silence hit the room, everyone
Speaker 1: exchanged glances. Mark shot me a half-smile over his wine. We'll, ah,
Speaker 1: keep you in the loop, he said quickly, and the
Speaker 1: topic shifted. I tried to dismiss it as nothing, but Natalie,
Speaker 1: ever kind, pulled me aside later in the hallway, lips
Speaker 1: pressed tight. Don't take it personally. Everyone's schedules have been
Speaker 1: so weird, she whispered. Her hand lingered on my arm
Speaker 1: for a heartbeat longer than friendly. Seriously, it's not about you.
Speaker 1: After everyone left, I peeled off my hosting face. Mark
Speaker 1: did the dishes in silence. The old Sunday market routine,
Speaker 1: our weekly morning treat, was now a memory. Mark chalked
Speaker 1: it up to exhaustion, last-minute commitments. I wanted to believe
Speaker 1: this was just a bad stretch, a blip. but Mark
Speaker 1: was coming home more and more with that same sweet,
Speaker 1: expensive perfume clinging to his coat, and oddly, a regular
Speaker 1: parade of coffee cups, all from cafes in neighbourhoods I knew,
Speaker 1: but he'd never mentioned visiting. Still, whenever I teased about
Speaker 1: his new cafe habit, Mark stiffened, retreated into one-word answers. Convenience,
Speaker 1: he said, it's right by the community centre. I didn't push.
Speaker 1: but I started looking at our credit card statement one night,
Speaker 1: a knee-jerk search for reassurance. There were small charges everywhere
Speaker 1: across the city. Vegan bakeries in Carroll Gardens, two separate
Speaker 1: coffee shops in Park Slope, a juice bar on Bedford.
Speaker 1: This must all be for work or volunteering, I tried
Speaker 1: telling myself, scrolling compulsively through my banking app. The following Sunday,
Speaker 1: the city bloomed unexpectedly warm for late April. I decided
Speaker 1: to rearrange my work schedule. My last client had cancelled,
Speaker 1: and the house was quiet to the point of recklessness.
Speaker 1: Mark had said he'd be at the pantry workshop all afternoon.
Speaker 1: On a whim, or maybe out of a hunger for
Speaker 1: proof that all these dots connected to nothing, I tucked
Speaker 1: my hair under a cap, grabbed a sketchbook, and walked
Speaker 1: to the small vegan café on 3rd Ave, a place
Speaker 1: that had appeared on our statements again and again. I
Speaker 1: saw them through the clouded glass, before I even reached
Speaker 1: the corner table. Mark sat in the corner, his posture loose,
Speaker 1: shoulders leaning in. Across from him was a woman in
Speaker 1: a green dress, hair twisted up, a smile punched through
Speaker 1: with easy warmth. She laughed, tossing her hair, her hand slim, manicured,
Speaker 1: hovering right next to Mark's reach. His face had that open,
Speaker 1: old Mark glow, like when he first told me he
Speaker 1: loved me. I stopped cold by a delivery bike parked
Speaker 1: at the curb. My heart pounded. The table was close
Speaker 1: enough that I could see Mark's coffee cup, Nectar. The
Speaker 1: woman reached out, brushed something from his jacket, her nails
Speaker 1: painted a muted, powdery pink. I waited long minutes behind
Speaker 1: that parked bike, scraping lines in my sketchbook, wrists sweating
Speaker 1: into the page. When they got up to leave, Mark
Speaker 1: helped her with her bag, his hand ghosting at her back.
Speaker 1: I watched them walk away together, I didn't follow. That night,
Speaker 1: Mark texted that dinner was off. He was totally spent
Speaker 1: from volunteer training, but he'd make it up to me
Speaker 1: next weekend. I slept with the lights on, mind spinning,
Speaker 1: phone clutched to my chest. I didn't say a word.
Speaker 1: A few days later, while scrolling through Instagram in the
Speaker 1: lull before dinner, I caught a glimpse of Mark, not
Speaker 1: posed with our circle, but amidst a party crowd on
Speaker 1: a rooftop at dusk, his hand wrapped around a sparkling water.
Speaker 1: his arm around the woman from the café. Everyone around
Speaker 1: them was unfamiliar. The photo had been tagged by someone
Speaker 1: named at Amara X. Moments later, it vanished, but not
Speaker 1: quickly enough. I clicked through links, urgent, palms tingling. I
Speaker 1: found the Eastside Community Instagram, public for outreach. It was
Speaker 1: a trove of photos cataloguing group events. Mark at a
Speaker 1: paint drive, Mark organising a bunch of boxes, Mark at
Speaker 1: a rooftop mixer, always within a few feet of Amara.
Speaker 1: One photo froze me, a close-up of Amara, bright eyes,
Speaker 1: a red scarf, the same muted pink lipstick gracing the
Speaker 1: rim of her takeaway cup. She wore artistic statement earrings,
Speaker 1: printed pants, a confidence that strung. At first I tried
Speaker 1: to talk myself around and through it. Maybe Mark needed
Speaker 1: a space of his own, time to do good, to vent.
Speaker 1: Maybe Amara was just a super-friendly volunteer, and he got
Speaker 1: swept up, the way he always did with big new projects.
Speaker 1: Was it insecurity to notice the coffee, the lipstick, the
Speaker 1: secretive blocks on his calendar? Was I the one building
Speaker 1: a palisade of paranoia out of nothing? Still, that night,
Speaker 1: he caught me scrolling our bank app at the kitchen table.
Speaker 1: He pressed his hand to my shoulder. Don't worry so much,
Speaker 1: he said, the words rehearsed. I looked up. About what?
Speaker 1: He smiled, head dishevelled, an errant sunbeam cutting behind his head. Money. Everything. See,
Speaker 1: I'm working on a big volunteer fundraiser, that's all. That's
Speaker 1: why I've been missing in action. Amara's the group's marketing head.
Speaker 1: She schedules everyone on social, gets those weird vegan bakeries
Speaker 1: to coordinate with us. It's chaos. Okay, I said, uncertain.
Speaker 1: It's just, you never mentioned her. He sighed, fatigue or impatience.
Speaker 1: I couldn't pause. I wanted it to be a surprise.
Speaker 1: A surprise. He nodded, voice softening. I know you've been
Speaker 1: down since the client dropped you. I was going to
Speaker 1: ask you to design a mural at the community centre,
Speaker 1: as a gift. I really thought you'd be excited. I
Speaker 1: wanted to do something meaningful for you. The explanation was
Speaker 1: both large and small, plausible and extravagant. Mark's eyes were gentle,
Speaker 1: full of the eager hope I remembered loving. He reached
Speaker 1: for my hand and stroked my thumb. I'm sorry I
Speaker 1: kept it from you. Can I fix this? Please. For
Speaker 1: a breathless moment, relief rushed in behind my breastbone. The
Speaker 1: world felt technicolor lighter. Maybe I'd been shadowboxing with ghosts,
Speaker 1: dragging my own insecurity into the empty spaces where Mark
Speaker 1: lived his life. He spent the rest of the evening
Speaker 1: playing me tracks from a playlist he'd made, an inside joke,
Speaker 1: little nostalgic bits from when we first met. We cracked
Speaker 1: open a bottle of bourbon saved from my birthday. We
Speaker 1: even laughed together. Later in bed, I reached toward him.
Speaker 1: He held me close, curling our fingers together. He left
Speaker 1: his phone face up for the first time in months.
Speaker 1: I deleted a draft message to Natalie, the one reading.
Speaker 1: Am I losing my mind or is something wrong? My
Speaker 1: cheeks burned with shame. Maybe I was just overreacting. unmoored
Speaker 1: by freelance anxiety, reading too much into his energy. I
Speaker 1: told myself to trust him. Love is trust, after all.
Speaker 1: A few mornings later, an email pinged into my inbox
Speaker 1: at ten past seven. The sender was Joan Mendelson, director,
Speaker 1: Eastside Community Group. The email was short. formal CCing Mark's
Speaker 1: work address. Dear Serena, Thank you for your ongoing support
Speaker 1: and discretion regarding Mark's involvement in our outreach programming. We
Speaker 1: appreciate your help in keeping the peace recently. Please see
Speaker 1: the attached flyer for our upcoming Creativity in Community workshop,
Speaker 1: jointly hosted by Mark W. and Amara Saint. We hope
Speaker 1: you'll consider joining the session or contributing artwork in the future.
Speaker 1: Thank you again for your role in making our space
Speaker 1: welcoming for all. Attached was a glossy PDF with Mark
Speaker 1: and Amara's faces pasted in the corner, listed as co-leads
Speaker 1: for a Saturday workshop. There was no mention of tech fundraising,
Speaker 1: no mural. My chest squeezed. After dinner, I set my
Speaker 1: laptop in Mark's lap and pointed at the screen. Did
Speaker 1: you know about this? He barely glanced at the message,
Speaker 1: his body tightening. That's not how, look. Joan's emails are
Speaker 1: always stiff. The wording doesn't mean anything. I told her you.
Speaker 1: Dee help eventually with the mural. She's just running with it.
Speaker 1: Then what's this keeping the peace line mean? I asked,
Speaker 1: my hands trembling. He brushed it off, defensive. You know
Speaker 1: how these people are. Passive-aggressive. It's just how non-profits run.
Speaker 1: Amara runs all the social stuff. She puts my name
Speaker 1: on random things because I'm one of the few people
Speaker 1: who understand the tech. You're reading too much into it.
Speaker 1: I wanted to believe him, but the phrase, keeping the peace,
Speaker 1: hung in my throat. I did what I always do,
Speaker 1: reached for context. I called Natalie, voice low and dry
Speaker 1: with apology. Have you seen Mark and Amara together? I just,
Speaker 1: something feels off with them. She hesitated, a long, brittle silence.
Speaker 1: I could hear the hum of subway tracks behind her.
Speaker 1: I've only seen them in groups. He's she's been around.
Speaker 1: A lot. Mark says she pulls everyone in for volunteering.
Speaker 1: I assumed you knew, but Serena, can I be honest?
Speaker 1: I swallowed. Yeah, Nat. She sighed. It's not just me.
Speaker 1: People have noticed they're close. Like maybe more than just work.
Speaker 1: But I haven't seen anything, just thought you deserve to know.
Speaker 1: I bit my lip so hard it ached. Nat's voice
Speaker 1: was gentle but firm. She wouldn't say something if it
Speaker 1: was just idle gossip. Still, I thanked her, said I'd
Speaker 1: handle it. When I hung up, the apartment felt colder.
Speaker 1: It wasn't paranoia. It wasn't just my anxiety. Other people
Speaker 1: were seeing what I saw. In the days that followed,
Speaker 1: I watched Mark without really meaning to, his phone, always
Speaker 1: attached to his hand now, lock screen rotated. Face ID set.
Speaker 1: He'd go to the bathroom with it, even in the
Speaker 1: middle of a show we both loved to binge. Physical
Speaker 1: affection became rote. He kissed my forehead in the morning,
Speaker 1: but pulled away when I leaned in for more. Nights
Speaker 1: grew longer, rougher, marked by fitful sleep. The credit card
Speaker 1: app became my new bedtime ritual, a comfort that only
Speaker 1: kicked me harder every time I scrolled. Fifty dollars at
Speaker 1: a bakery in Astoria. Handmade ceramics from a stall in Soho.
Speaker 1: Mark claimed he was chipping in for outreach, little presents
Speaker 1: for donors. I wanted to believe him, but the numbers
Speaker 1: were wrong. Too large, too frequent, nothing itemized. always just
Speaker 1: out of proportion, not quite enough for an affair, but
Speaker 1: far too much for bagels and juice. Then, as if
Speaker 1: the universe wanted to underline the cracks, Amara posted a story,
Speaker 1: gone twenty minutes later, but not before I could watch
Speaker 1: it twice. Mark and Amara, arms flung around each other's shoulders,
Speaker 1: broad daylight at a bustling street fair, ticket booths beaming
Speaker 1: behind them, city banners for the Upstate Art Festival. The
Speaker 1: date was last Saturday. when Mark had claimed he'd be
Speaker 1: working late from home to finish a big product roadmap.
Speaker 1: I stared at the image until it hurt. I spent
Speaker 1: several hours in the apartment, retracing every step I could
Speaker 1: remember from the last month. Each memory produced some other inconsistency.
Speaker 1: A dinner run out, a night Mark stayed at the centre.
Speaker 1: After hours, a Saturday he claimed he was with his
Speaker 1: old friend Theo, phone off all day. I dug deeper, desperate,
Speaker 1: guilt-mounting alongside suspicion. Finally, I opened Mark's desk drawer, the
Speaker 1: one he mostly reserved for stray business cards and ancient
Speaker 1: USB drives. There, sandwiched between two technical journals, was an
Speaker 1: envelope stamped with a Toronto hotel's name. Inside, a hotel
Speaker 1: receipt dated the same weekend as the art fair out
Speaker 1: of town. Another card for Nectar Café and two wristbands
Speaker 1: from the festival. None of it matched the conference he'd promised.
Speaker 1: My skin prickled as I arranged the receipts, the email,
Speaker 1: Mark's lanyard, the attendant evidence in front of me. I
Speaker 1: felt at once like a detective and a trespasser, both
Speaker 1: sure of myself and utterly lost. The evidence was right there,
Speaker 1: but the story was still, impossibly, unfinished. I was standing
Speaker 1: at the edge of the truth, heart howling in my chest,
Speaker 1: knowing the next question could destroy the life I thought
Speaker 1: we'd built. I waited that evening by the windowsill. The
Speaker 1: city ghosted in the blue dusk. Mark texted to say
Speaker 1: he was picking up take-out. When he entered, hands full
Speaker 1: of a familiar boxed pastry and that branded coffee cup
Speaker 1: from Nectar Café, pink lipstick faintly smeared at its lip.
Speaker 1: It took all my strength not to crumble. I gripped
Speaker 1: the receipts, their edges curled by my sweating palm, and
Speaker 1: watched him step into the apartment. His eyes flickered when
Speaker 1: he saw me standing by the table, the evidence spread
Speaker 1: before me, quiet and inexorable. On the surface, nothing was different,
Speaker 1: two people in a room, shadows stretching long beneath the
Speaker 1: city's uncertain light. But I felt the universe tilt, slow,
Speaker 1: stretching out the moment before everything breaks. I hadn't spoken yet,
Speaker 1: I didn't know if I even could. Mark looked at me,
Speaker 1: not quite making eye contact, then glanced down at the
Speaker 1: haphazard spread on the table as if he'd wandered into
Speaker 1: the wrong stranger's apartment. I let the silence gather anchor.
Speaker 1: The faint lamplight tuned the receipts almost translucent and glimmered
Speaker 1: off the coffee cup's lid. My own breath was so
Speaker 1: shallow it felt like waiting underwater. I got your favourite,
Speaker 1: he said after a beat, setting a bakery box on
Speaker 1: the counter, voice visibly groping for something cheerful. Hazelnut cruller,
Speaker 1: wasn't sure if you'd. Mark, I said softly, almost relieved
Speaker 1: just to hear my own voice. I slid the hotel
Speaker 1: receipt forward, right beneath his hand. Before you start, I
Speaker 1: need you to look at this. He froze, his smile
Speaker 1: flickering and dying. He registered the paper, his name printed
Speaker 1: there beneath the black block letters of the hotel's logo,
Speaker 1: and did not speak. I pointed at the stack. These
Speaker 1: are from Toronto, during the Upstate Art Festival. You said
Speaker 1: you had a conference that weekend, that you were working
Speaker 1: 11-hour days. He opened his mouth. then closed it, then
Speaker 1: leaned on the countertop. His stance shifted, shoulders growing more rigid,
Speaker 1: as if bracing himself. Why are you going through my stuff?
Speaker 1: The words had an edge, less anger, more practiced deflection.
Speaker 1: I stood my ground. I could hear, distantly, a neighbor's TV,
Speaker 1: a fluted laugh rising up the stairwell. None of it
Speaker 1: reached the heaviness in this room, the shellac of days
Speaker 1: and weeks and months where I'd felt myself being handled
Speaker 1: gently out of frame. I didn't want to, I said,
Speaker 1: my voice unsteady. But nothing made sense anymore. You keep
Speaker 1: coming home with lipstick on your coffee sleeve and a
Speaker 1: perfume I don't own. You're gone more than your home.
Speaker 1: I saw photos of you with Amara at an art
Speaker 1: fair you swore you missed. He finally met my gaze then,
Speaker 1: blue eyes narrowed, face carved in sharp relief. He looked tired,
Speaker 1: hair must from the rain. That's not, he stammered. You're
Speaker 1: connecting dots that don't even exist. The festival was, look,
Speaker 1: Amara organized it for the community. I popped in to
Speaker 1: help out. There's nothing weird about that. I shook my head,
Speaker 1: the ache pressing harder against my temples. Mark, the hotel,
Speaker 1: the cash withdrawals, the lanyard I found two weeks ago,
Speaker 1: volunteer staff. You never once mentioned volunteering. You never mentioned her.
Speaker 1: I kept my voice carefully neutral. It was an act. Inside,
Speaker 1: I was shivering and sweating. panic making the world tilt.
Speaker 1: The script I thought we shared was dissolving. He crossed
Speaker 1: his arms, almost as if hugging himself. His eyes moved
Speaker 1: to the coffee cup again, then over to the credit
Speaker 1: card statements, studiously avoiding the lipstick. I do volunteer there.
Speaker 1: You know I do, he said, as if repeating it
Speaker 1: would make it real, would smooth everything over. Sometimes I
Speaker 1: just want to keep part of my life for myself.
Speaker 1: Is that a crime? A bitter, involuntary laugh escaped my lips. No, Mark,
Speaker 1: but lying is. Gaslighting is. You've told me so many
Speaker 1: different stories, my head spins. He looked away, jaw worked tight,
Speaker 1: seeking an exit that didn't exist. Fine, I should have
Speaker 1: been clearer, but you're blowing this way out of proportion.
Speaker 1: His tone slipped toward anger, thin and fraying. But he
Speaker 1: didn't leave. He stood across from me in our kitchen,
Speaker 1: clutching that coffee cup, his face uncertain, as defensive as
Speaker 1: I'd ever seen him. It made him look younger and
Speaker 1: somehow more like a stranger. My stomach twisted. A vibration
Speaker 1: buzzed on his phone. We both looked, instinctively, silently. He
Speaker 1: turned it over, face down, then slowly put it in
Speaker 1: his back pocket. I didn't press more just yet. I
Speaker 1: just exhaled and stepped away, walking stiffly to the living room.
Speaker 1: The air bristled with the weight of everything unsaid. He
Speaker 1: eventually followed, voice a beat too casual. Look, I'm sorry
Speaker 1: if you feel shut out. I really was going to
Speaker 1: tell you, okay? I wanted to surprise you. I had
Speaker 1: this big plan to ask you to come design a mural.
Speaker 1: Amara got you on the short list. The story hung there,
Speaker 1: almost word for word the surprise explanation from before. But
Speaker 1: the center of it was hollow, brittle from the strain.
Speaker 1: I sat on the edge of our sofa, hands folded
Speaker 1: so tightly my knuckles burned. You wanted to surprise me.
Speaker 1: But then why are you hiding coffee cups, changing passwords,
Speaker 1: running out to meetings that don't exist? Why did you
Speaker 1: tell me you were working late when you were at
Speaker 1: an art festival hotel with her? Mark didn't have a
Speaker 1: ready answer. The mask flickered. He collapsed onto the other
Speaker 1: end of the couch, elbows on his knees, face in
Speaker 1: his hands. I'd never seen him physically shrink like this,
Speaker 1: all his open-chested confidence drained. I didn't mean for any
Speaker 1: of it to get this complicated. he said finally, voice
Speaker 1: cracking a little. You know how stuff just spins out.
Speaker 1: A fog of exhausted silence gathered around us. I just
Speaker 1: want to know one thing, I said. Are you seeing her?
Speaker 1: Is it an affair? He let out a long, rattling breath.
Speaker 1: Not in the way you're thinking. We're friends. She's going
Speaker 1: through stuff too. Sometimes it helps to talk to someone
Speaker 1: who gets it. Something in his voice sounded almost honest.
Speaker 1: or close enough to try on for size. I wanted
Speaker 1: to believe him. I really did. But then, as if
Speaker 1: tempted by some private dare, he picked up his phone
Speaker 1: and thumbed a message beneath the hem of his shirt.
Speaker 1: Who are you texting? I asked, unable to keep the
Speaker 1: sharpness out. He looked at me, startled. Work. I just
Speaker 1: need to clear something up for tomorrow. Seriously, can we
Speaker 1: not do this right now? I stood, moving my hand
Speaker 1: to my chest just to feel my own heartbeat. Mark,
Speaker 1: I saw you with her, holding hands at the coffee shop.
Speaker 1: You never hold hands with anyone, barely even with me anymore.
Speaker 1: He stood too quickly, mouth open in ready protest, but
Speaker 1: I cut in. I'm not stupid, Mark. Why won't you
Speaker 1: just admit something? S going on. He moved in an
Speaker 1: anxious orbit around the room, gaze darting to the kitchen,
Speaker 1: the front door, anywhere but me. I told you Amara's
Speaker 1: a friend, and you and I have been. Off. Maybe
Speaker 1: if you'd let me have this part of my life,
Speaker 1: if you trusted me. A shard of humiliation sliced through me.
Speaker 1: You think I don't trust you because you make it
Speaker 1: impossible to trust you. He strode closer, exasperation brightening his eyes.
Speaker 1: You want to see every text. Here. He thrust his
Speaker 1: phone toward me, the screen still locked. Go ahead. You
Speaker 1: want to know everything. I don't want to poke and
Speaker 1: prod you like some security guard, I said quietly. I
Speaker 1: want you to just tell me the truth. His hand dropped,
Speaker 1: knuckles white. I am telling the truth. Something about the
Speaker 1: way he said it made that word mean its opposite.
Speaker 1: I felt a brassy taste in my mouth. I picked
Speaker 1: up the coffee sleeve, waved it lightly in the air.
Speaker 1: What about this? He frowned. That's hers, probably. Or it's
Speaker 1: the barista, S. or maybe it's yours and you just forgot.
Speaker 1: Don't do this, Seer, come on. Each deflection strung. I
Speaker 1: set the sleeve gently down, as if it could detonate.
Speaker 1: I think I need some air, I whispered, less to
Speaker 1: him than to the walls. He didn't follow. As I
Speaker 1: slid on my shoes and stepped out, the door thunked
Speaker 1: closed behind me, and for the first time since the
Speaker 1: start of our life together, I felt truly rootless outside
Speaker 1: the door of our shared apartment, adrift in the corridor,
Speaker 1: not knowing what would hit me next. The stairwell was
Speaker 1: thick with the scent of someone's dinner, garlic, maybe, something
Speaker 1: safe and simple and warm. I leaned against the chipped paint,
Speaker 1: head pressed to the wall, phone braced in my hand.
Speaker 1: Did I want to call anyone? Did I even want
Speaker 1: to let these words exist outside my own head? I
Speaker 1: thumbed open my texts and scrolled aimlessly. Natalie, no, too soon,
Speaker 1: too raw. She'd ask what was wrong and then really
Speaker 1: want to know, My sister, no, she'd drive in and
Speaker 1: demand to punch Mark for me. I hovered on Natalie's
Speaker 1: name for a full minute before just shoving my phone away.
Speaker 1: Ten minutes later, I let myself back inside. Mark was
Speaker 1: at the window, staring out over Prospect Park, hands jammed
Speaker 1: into his pockets. The box of pastries sat unopened on
Speaker 1: the kitchen counter. For a second, he looked small against
Speaker 1: the city's sweep. Not a host, not a husband, just
Speaker 1: a man. stuck halfway between the person I knew and
Speaker 1: the person I couldn't see. The next morning, nothing was settled.
Speaker 1: We crossed paths in the kitchen, moving carefully around each other,
Speaker 1: all our usual pleasantries chipped thin. Mark headed out early,
Speaker 1: texting back late, meeting at the centre. I tried to
Speaker 1: bury myself in a freelance deadline, my progress ruined by
Speaker 1: the adrenaline hangover churned up in my stomach. Not two
Speaker 1: hours later, a message pinged, Nathalie. Thinking about you. Brunch
Speaker 1: this weekend. Just us. It was code for, I know
Speaker 1: something's wrong, but I'll wait till you ask. I said yes,
Speaker 1: but left it at that. Saturday's brunch was at a tiny,
Speaker 1: leafy spot south of Atlantic. I arrived first, a bundle
Speaker 1: of nerves. When Natalie slid in, she squeezed my shoulder,
Speaker 1: ordered coffee, talked about work for a while. When the
Speaker 1: lull came, her gaze flicked to mine. You doing alright?
Speaker 1: I hesitated. Can I ask you something totally direct, no judgment?
Speaker 1: She nodded. How long have you known Mark was close
Speaker 1: with Amara? My voice broke barely above a whisper. Natalie sighed.
Speaker 1: I mean, I thought you knew. They've been paired a
Speaker 1: lot at those outreach events. She's kind of around a lot.
Speaker 1: He said you didn't feel up to the volunteering. I
Speaker 1: shook my head. That's not true, he never asked. We
Speaker 1: stared at each other. cups between our hands. I didn't
Speaker 1: want to be the one to upset you, Natalie said,
Speaker 1: but a bunch of people have noticed. Little things. Mark's
Speaker 1: always on his phone, always the last to leave Saturday brunches.
Speaker 1: He never stays over at anyone's place anymore, not since
Speaker 1: Amara started coming around. My insides twisted. I fiddled with
Speaker 1: the sugar packet so long the paper shredded under my nails.
Speaker 1: Do you think there, I started. Nat just looked at me,
Speaker 1: compassion written in the softened lines around her mouth. I
Speaker 1: don't know, I haven't seen anything, but if I were
Speaker 1: in your position, I wouldn't feel crazy for asking. When
Speaker 1: I got home, the air felt different, heavy, muggy, as
Speaker 1: if everything inside was fermenting. Mark was out again, drafting
Speaker 1: the mural proposal at the centre. Every message was more
Speaker 1: careful now, as if he feared a trap. I moved
Speaker 1: through our apartment like a visitor. I'd once spent hours
Speaker 1: fine-tuning the colour of the walls, the height of every picture.
Speaker 1: Now it all felt staged, a set I was on,
Speaker 1: not a home. Later that night, his phone buzzed. The
Speaker 1: first name to light up. A, just an initial, and
Speaker 1: the notification vanished before I could see anything more. Instead
Speaker 1: of asking, I started searching, quietly, methodically. In the browser
Speaker 1: history on our iPad, I found an account open to
Speaker 1: Nectar's menu several times late at night. Mark's order, their
Speaker 1: signature honey cardamom latte, same every time. Why would someone,
Speaker 1: who never cared about coffee, start this habit, all of
Speaker 1: a sudden? I remembered the rooftop party photo and dug deeper,
Speaker 1: following names I found in group event posts. People I
Speaker 1: didn't recognise. Emily, Jadon, someone named Felix be all with
Speaker 1: photos from Eastside events. Mark appeared in a few, always
Speaker 1: at the edge of the shot but somehow central, everyone's
Speaker 1: hands on his shoulders. his hand always on Amara's back
Speaker 1: or arm. The caption on one shot, Dream Team, Creative
Speaker 1: Energy Everywhere, Community Spark. The longest night of my life
Speaker 1: was the one where I first texted someone I didn't
Speaker 1: actually know, a friend of a friend who posted photos
Speaker 1: from the centre. I asked innocuously if they needed more
Speaker 1: design volunteers. She replied yes, gushed about the centre, sent
Speaker 1: a group sign-up form. My curiosity wavered. I kept it civil. Afterwards,
Speaker 1: unable to sleep, I padded barefoot from room to room.
Speaker 1: Each space held a shadow memory. Mark and I painting
Speaker 1: the hallway, Mark at the kitchen island chopping garlic, Mark
Speaker 1: laughed in the bathtub with socks on his hands, doing
Speaker 1: a bit from a forgotten movie. All felt doomed, reframed,
Speaker 1: as if a set decorator had staged my memories for
Speaker 1: maximum pathos. I met with Natalie again, this time at
Speaker 1: her apartment, the windows bright with spring's sharp light. everything
Speaker 1: in her place too neat by half. She listened as
Speaker 1: I laid out what I'd found, how off everything had felt.
Speaker 1: You've known him forever, I said, voice hitching. Would he cheat?
Speaker 1: She was quiet for a long time. There was sympathy,
Speaker 1: but not the defense I'd hoped for. I don't know,
Speaker 1: she said. But I know you, Serena. I know you're
Speaker 1: not delusional. You've always trusted your gut. If it's telling
Speaker 1: you something, it's probably right. The next day, as if
Speaker 1: she somehow sensed the fresh gravity between us, Amara messaged
Speaker 1: me through Instagram, a polite note, oddly formal, asking if
Speaker 1: I wanted to contribute art to the creativity workshop. She
Speaker 1: included a flyer, her email, marks as a contact. I
Speaker 1: held the phone so hard I nearly cracked the screen.
Speaker 1: I started a reply, I typed, deleted, typed again, but
Speaker 1: couldn't send anything, not one word that felt right. Instead,
Speaker 1: I opened up my notebook and drew two sketchy hands,
Speaker 1: outlined uncertain, not quite touching, beneath a bright city sky.
Speaker 1: The composition looked crowded, confused, hope and sorrow balled up together.
Speaker 1: In the margin, I wrote the words, truth makes everything ugly,
Speaker 1: but also clear. When Mark came home that night, he
Speaker 1: had no boxed pastry, no coffee cup, no artificial cheerfulness.
Speaker 1: He looked spent. Hey, he said. more quietly than he
Speaker 1: usually did, long day. I nodded, not trusting myself to
Speaker 1: say much. Was it good, at the centre? He hesitated.
Speaker 1: It was productive. Letting the silence stretch, I tried not
Speaker 1: to fill it. For the first time, the old, glide-pathway
Speaker 1: we had with each other, jokes bouncing, stories unfurling, was
Speaker 1: utterly gone. Nothing left except the steel cable of unspoken
Speaker 1: accusation and defence. Later, I asked, will you be home
Speaker 1: Sunday this week? He looked away. I have another event.
Speaker 1: Amara needs me for inventory. Maybe we can do dinner, though.
Speaker 1: We'll see, I said, not even pretending now. He left
Speaker 1: early Sunday morning. Hours later, I flipped through our expense tracker,
Speaker 1: noting a new withdrawal, $ 280. Mark's justification when pressed that
Speaker 1: night was group tickets to a donor event, plus some
Speaker 1: last-minute expenses. The numbers didn't add up. The bank log
Speaker 1: didn't show any group transfer. That night, unable to keep
Speaker 1: any of it down, I called Chloe. Unlike Natalie, she
Speaker 1: didn't let me equivocate. He's been weird since January, she
Speaker 1: said bluntly. More texting, more checking out at dinners, talking
Speaker 1: about Amara all the time when you're not around. Didn't
Speaker 1: want to say anything because I thought you'd already talked. Sia,
Speaker 1: I'm sorry. I thanked her, but my voice sounded hollow
Speaker 1: in my own ears. All I wanted to do was
Speaker 1: hang up and scream. The next blow came on Wednesday, mid-morning,
Speaker 1: in the form of an online story. Amara posting a
Speaker 1: shot of her and Mark side by side at a
Speaker 1: crowded table, lunch bowls in the frame, sunlight carved around them,
Speaker 1: smiles too close. I stared at it, unable to move,
Speaker 1: as another tagged photo surfaced, someone in the comments referring
Speaker 1: to M and A, always bringing the best energy. The
Speaker 1: message in our friend group chat pinged that evening. See
Speaker 1: you at Saturday brunch hall. Seer, pastries please. It would
Speaker 1: have felt like an olive branch, except Mark immediately texted privately.
Speaker 1: Don't worry about brunch, babe. You don't have to come
Speaker 1: if you don't want to. The words grated. I drafted
Speaker 1: a response. Why wouldn't I want to? But lost my nerve.
Speaker 1: Who did he think he was protecting? That night, I
Speaker 1: lay in the dark, Mark's breathing slow beside me. the
Speaker 1: city glow running faint lines up the wall. I couldn't sleep.
Speaker 1: For the first time in forever, the idea of simply
Speaker 1: poking him awake and saying everything that was splitting me
Speaker 1: open didn't even enter my mind. The paranoia still sent
Speaker 1: me to his old backpack. I found a draft note
Speaker 1: open and quickly deleted from his phone. Need to talk,
Speaker 1: can't keep hiding this, unsigned. I scrolled up, but the
Speaker 1: text was already gone, overwritten. Nothing was certain, just the
Speaker 1: sense of ground giving way beneath every step. Thursday was
Speaker 1: the day everything finally stopped pretending. I'd emailed the director
Speaker 1: at the community centre, half expecting no answer. Instead, Joan
Speaker 1: replied within minutes. Serena, you're welcome to drop by any Saturday.
Speaker 1: Mark and Amara are always around for joint programming. We
Speaker 1: are grateful for your flexibility. Mark mentioned you both are
Speaker 1: managing a lot. Let me know when you're ready to contribute.
Speaker 1: The warmth might have felt comforting if not for the subtext,
Speaker 1: the assumption. The entire reply cemented Mark and Amara as
Speaker 1: a unit, joint programming, shared management, flexibility. I read it twice,
Speaker 1: sensing in it the shape of something I hadn't wanted
Speaker 1: to see. Saturday morning, sunlight cut across the hardwood, hitting
Speaker 1: the suitcase Mark and I had abandoned, still half-packed, in
Speaker 1: the corner of the bedroom. I stood over it for
Speaker 1: a long time, hand on the zipper, then let it drop.
Speaker 1: Around noon, I steeled myself and left the apartment, walking
Speaker 1: to Nectar with Natalie for coffee. The moment we entered,
Speaker 1: the barista grinned, holding up a Mark's usual, honey cardamom
Speaker 1: latte in the familiar yellow cup. I felt lightheaded as
Speaker 1: she scrawled a pink heart on the sleeve. You must
Speaker 1: be Amara's friend, she said. You two make a great team.
Speaker 1: Natalie's mouth grew tight. I only nodded, voice vanished. We
Speaker 1: took our coffees to the park, neither of us talking much.
Speaker 1: Natalie touched my arm with gently forceful certainty as we parted.
Speaker 1: You deserve the truth, Seer. Don't let him drown you out.
Speaker 1: The next evening I waited for Mark. Evidence spread again
Speaker 1: in front of me. The receipts, the credit card statement,
Speaker 1: the community centre flyer, the mug with its lipstick trance.
Speaker 1: When the key rattled in the lock, my hands were steady.
Speaker 1: I had rehearsed this for hours, for weeks, for far
Speaker 1: too long. But when Mark finally looked up at me,
Speaker 1: when the sun dropped between the buildings and our apartment
Speaker 1: tipped into gold, I realized I could only ask, why?
Speaker 1: He closed his eyes. For the first time, no denial,
Speaker 1: no evasion. Just a long, thin sigh that seemed to
Speaker 1: pull everything through the gap. We should talk, he said.
Speaker 1: the words heavy and final. I nodded, we really should.
Speaker 1: We should talk, he said, the words heavy and final.
Speaker 1: I nodded, we really should. The couch was between us
Speaker 1: like a negotiating table. Mark's hands moved restlessly, along the
Speaker 1: back cushions, into his hair, a dozen ticks that made
Speaker 1: the silence feel electric. I sat still, knees together, afraid
Speaker 1: that if I moved something irreversible would snap. He tried
Speaker 1: to meet my eye, failed, looked at the floor between
Speaker 1: his shoes. I never wanted this to happen, he said,
Speaker 1: voice gone raw in his throat. Something in me tensed,
Speaker 1: half hoping, half shying away from what he would say next.
Speaker 1: I need you to be straight with me, Mark. No
Speaker 1: more stories. He nodded, breathing out, still not looking up.
Speaker 1: There's no mural, I lied about that. Amara and I,
Speaker 1: the sound of her name between his teeth made my
Speaker 1: skin go cold. We've been seeing each other. It started
Speaker 1: at the community centre, just lunches at first, talking about work,
Speaker 1: and then more I'm sorry, I don't know when it
Speaker 1: crossed the line, but... I made a strangled sound and
Speaker 1: pressed my hand to my forehead. How long? He shut
Speaker 1: his eyes. About four months, maybe longer if you count,
Speaker 1: he stopped. You know, the first time I let her in,
Speaker 1: it was innocent until it was. The phrase landed between
Speaker 1: us like something wet dropped on the carpet. I couldn't
Speaker 1: breathe for a minute. I tried to steady my voice,
Speaker 1: but it still came out rough. You had a whole
Speaker 1: second life. He shook his head, desperate. It was like that.
Speaker 1: I never stopped loving you. I cut him off sharply. Don't,
Speaker 1: don't say that now. He wilted, his posture caving inward.
Speaker 1: The confession hung in the air, shimmering with all the
Speaker 1: things he wasn't saying. I looked at the coffee cup
Speaker 1: on the table, yellow sleeve, pink smear. There were fingerprints
Speaker 1: from both of us on it by now, evidence of
Speaker 1: how tangled our stories had become. After a minute when
Speaker 1: no more excuses came, I got up, movement stiff with adrenaline.
Speaker 1: I needed space, ere Mark said nothing. I left him
Speaker 1: sitting slack on the couch, palms pressed together as if
Speaker 1: in prayer. In the kitchen, I stared at the open cupboards,
Speaker 1: the mug rack, the sink still bright from the morning's dishes,
Speaker 1: all ordinary, all infected. I poured myself a glass of water,
Speaker 1: the tap running too long. I let it overflow the rim,
Speaker 1: then steadied my shaking hand. Behind me, Mark hovered in
Speaker 1: the kitchen doorway, face strained with panic. Please. Seer, I
Speaker 1: never wanted to hurt you. I thought, I thought you
Speaker 1: didn't need me. Anger burst up, white clean, alive. You
Speaker 1: thought I didn't need you, so you just slipped away,
Speaker 1: lied to me, hid everything. He hunched as if sheltering
Speaker 1: behind his own body. I didn't know what else to do.
Speaker 1: Amara was there, She just, she saw me. I didn't
Speaker 1: mean for it to be serious. I slammed the glass
Speaker 1: on the counter, water splashing. You didn't mean for it
Speaker 1: to be serious. How long were you planning to keep
Speaker 1: sneaking around, Mark? Until you got caught, or until you
Speaker 1: were bored? He flinched, mouth opening, then shutting again, nothing
Speaker 1: to say. The shame on his face was stark and
Speaker 1: unadorned for the first time. Finally, he whispered, I didn't
Speaker 1: want to choose. I thought I could fix it or
Speaker 1: make it go away. Every justification scraped at my patience
Speaker 1: like sand. You acted like you were protecting me, but
Speaker 1: you were just protecting yourself. Each word landed dull, exhausted.
Speaker 1: The fight was leeching out of me, leaving only something
Speaker 1: stunned and hollow. He nodded. You're right. There was no
Speaker 1: bravado left. I turned away, muscles trembling. My whole life
Speaker 1: felt suddenly up for reassessment. The late nights, the missed rituals,
Speaker 1: every memory contaminated at its root. He took a halting
Speaker 1: step forward. I'll end it, with her. I'll do whatever
Speaker 1: you want. The gesture, too late by months, made something decisive, permanent,
Speaker 1: settle in my chest. The apartment around us, filled with
Speaker 1: the detritus of our life, became a stranger's space. I
Speaker 1: think you should sleep in the guest room, I said,
Speaker 1: my voice shockingly calm, until you've figured out where you're going.
Speaker 1: He hesitated as if unable to process, then nodded slow. Okay,
Speaker 1: a flicker of something, the first real fear crossed his face.
Speaker 1: He made no move to touch me. I went to
Speaker 1: the bedroom and began to pull the half-packed suitcase from
Speaker 1: beneath the window. As I did, I realized I could
Speaker 1: finally stop waiting for things to make sense. That night
Speaker 1: I lay staring at the city-lit ceiling, aware of every
Speaker 1: small sound from the guest room. I thought I'd cry.
Speaker 1: but instead lay stunned, numb, alternating between flashes of fury
Speaker 1: and blank white static. In the dark, I kept counting
Speaker 1: the hours until morning. Twice, I heard Mark moving, pacing
Speaker 1: across the hardwood, maybe hoping I'd come to him, maybe
Speaker 1: just lost. I didn't move, didn't say his name. When
Speaker 1: dawn smudged the sky purple above the park, I rolled
Speaker 1: out of bed, and with hands that barely shook, started
Speaker 1: boxing his clothes. not out of rage, but to set
Speaker 1: a boundary. One small drawer at a time, his running shirts,
Speaker 1: stacks of company swag, the ugly Christmas sweater his mom mailed.
Speaker 1: Each object auditioned for meaning, then went silent. Mark emerged,
Speaker 1: eyes puffy, wearing yesterday's crumpled T-shirt. Serena, he said, voice hoarse.
Speaker 1: I didn't look up. I need you to leave, today.
Speaker 1: He moved as if to protest, then slumped against the doorframe,
Speaker 1: Can we at least talk? Try to. I stopped holding
Speaker 1: up a jacket. You lied, Mark. For months, I can't
Speaker 1: do this with you now. He leaned against the wall,
Speaker 1: covering his face. I screwed up. I know I did.
Speaker 1: I'd say I'm sorry, but I know it doesn't matter.
Speaker 1: A small, exhausted laugh tumbled out. You should go. I
Speaker 1: won't stop you seeing friends or collecting your mail. But
Speaker 1: I can't see you, not for a while. He pressed
Speaker 1: his hand flat to his chest, face twisted. You don't
Speaker 1: have to decide this right now. We can. I shook
Speaker 1: my head. I am deciding. Please collect your stuff by tonight.
Speaker 1: Mark said nothing for a long moment. Then he nodded once,
Speaker 1: quick and defeated, and retreated to the guest room. By noon,
Speaker 1: he'd packed two suitcases and a messenger bag, moving through
Speaker 1: the apartment as if afraid of touching anything. He left
Speaker 1: sticky notes. O.N. Lone. call M.E. in my sketchbook, on
Speaker 1: his half of the record collection. I ignored them. A
Speaker 1: text buzzed from Natalie, thinking of you. I thumbed back
Speaker 1: a short reply, he's leaving, it's over. That was all,
Speaker 1: no explanations. I sat at the edge of the bed,
Speaker 1: as Mark stuffed the last chargers and headphones into his bag.
Speaker 1: I'll text where I end up, he said, avoiding my eyes,
Speaker 1: hand on the knob. I looked up steady. Don't, not
Speaker 1: for a while. His shoulders caved. He took off his
Speaker 1: key and dropped it by the sink, lining it up
Speaker 1: with unnecessary precision. A minute later, the door clicked shut.
Speaker 1: The silence after was so complete it felt medical, vacuumed
Speaker 1: of air and memory. I wandered the apartment, not crying,
Speaker 1: not breathing. It was hours before I could make myself move.
Speaker 1: I deleted Mark from our shared calendar, logged out his
Speaker 1: Google account, Wiped joint reminders, each action practical, echoing final.
Speaker 1: His absence was as tangible as a bruise. I texted
Speaker 1: our friend group a single, careful line. Mark and I
Speaker 1: are taking some space, please respect my privacy. Nothing more.
Speaker 1: By nightfall, the sun was gone, and traffic washed the
Speaker 1: windows in shadow. I looked around at our life in
Speaker 1: partial rewind. Empty drawers, a grocery list half completed on
Speaker 1: the fridge. the coffee cup still perched atop its coaster.
Speaker 1: I wondered what tomorrow would look like, and told myself
Speaker 1: that didn't matter yet. Inside, hollowed out and shaking, I
Speaker 1: drifted to the balcony. I sat on the rough iron
Speaker 1: chair with the city pulsing beneath me, hands curled around
Speaker 1: a glass of wine, suitcase at my feet, every nerve
Speaker 1: still keyed. For a long moment, I watched the streetlights
Speaker 1: blink on, people shouting below. Someone's dog barking, untethered to me.
Speaker 1: My hands found the branded coffee sleeve, pocket-worn and limp.
Speaker 1: I turned it once, twice, thumb on the lipstick stain. Then, careful,
Speaker 1: I tore it in two. The sound was nothing, just
Speaker 1: a thin, papery crinkle, but it felt like permission. I
Speaker 1: set the halves on the little table, uneven, unremarkable, useless now.
Speaker 1: I closed my eyes. There was nothing to say, to text,
Speaker 1: or to decide. The city listened, vast and indifferent. After
Speaker 1: so much noise, I let the silence hold me, steady
Speaker 1: and discreet, a weight that pressed but at last did
Speaker 1: not crush. I don't know how long I sat on
Speaker 1: that balcony, the chill from the iron pressed through my
Speaker 1: legs and sank into my skin, but I let it.
Speaker 1: The city below pulsed along, uncaring, horns, distant sirens, someone's
Speaker 1: laughter bubbling up from the sidewalk. Time lost its regular shape.
Speaker 1: stretching thin with each sip of wine, each tightening coil
Speaker 1: of dread beneath my ribs. For a while, I tried
Speaker 1: to imagine the conversations happening on the other side of
Speaker 1: various walls. People arriving home to someone waiting, dinner clinks,
Speaker 1: television laughter. The ordinariness of it, the fact that somewhere
Speaker 1: in all those rooms trust still counted for something, and
Speaker 1: wasn't a sick joke. I wondered how much of that
Speaker 1: was projection, how many people were sitting just as I was.
Speaker 1: quietly breaking a piece of something that was supposed to
Speaker 1: be durable. Eventually, I moved. I took my empty glass
Speaker 1: into the kitchen, ran the water so long I forgot
Speaker 1: about it. The apartment was a mess in the kind
Speaker 1: of way that looks deliberate, boxes half-packed with Mark's things,
Speaker 1: post-its curling up at the corners, a shoe near the
Speaker 1: coat rack for no reason. I didn't tidy. I couldn't.
Speaker 1: The tension in my muscles refused to dissolve into action.
Speaker 1: Round ten. Natalie texted again. It was rare for her
Speaker 1: to ask for anything outright, so when she said, come
Speaker 1: over if you want, or I can come to you, anything,
Speaker 1: I just need to know you aren't alone, I didn't
Speaker 1: even bother composing a reply, just called her, let the
Speaker 1: phone ring until she picked up so I wouldn't have
Speaker 1: to say anything at all. I heard in her voice
Speaker 1: the careful, watchful tone people reserve for emergencies and for grief.
Speaker 1: She said she'd be by in twenty. I used those
Speaker 1: minutes to splash water on my face, brush my teeth,
Speaker 1: try and piece myself into something remotely human. When Natalie arrived,
Speaker 1: she didn't ask for an explanation, just hugged me, her
Speaker 1: arms solid, and the only anchor I'd had all day.
Speaker 1: We sat in the living room with the box of
Speaker 1: pastries Mark had left on the counter. I picked one up,
Speaker 1: then set it back down untouched. Neither of us brought
Speaker 1: up his name right away. Natalie told me, unprompted, that
Speaker 1: she'd called Tessa, warned her not to probe, to give
Speaker 1: me room to breathe. There was something in her careful
Speaker 1: delivery that made it clear. Everyone would know by sunrise,
Speaker 1: but she would control the story, at least as much
Speaker 1: as she could. Is he gone? she finally asked, her
Speaker 1: words so practical it made me want to sob. He's gone,
Speaker 1: I answered, not recognizing my own voice. I'm glad you
Speaker 1: made him leave, she said. Then, softer, you didn't deserve that.
Speaker 1: That phrase, repeated by every friend who reached out over
Speaker 1: the next hours, should have sharpened the pain further, but
Speaker 1: it only dulled everything to a grey numbness. I nodded,
Speaker 1: leaned against her shoulder. She swept the coffee cup and
Speaker 1: its ruined sleeve from the table and dropped both noisily
Speaker 1: in the trash. You want me to stay over, she offered. No,
Speaker 1: I replied, surprising myself. I just want to be alone.
Speaker 1: She paused, studied my face, and only then nodded. Text
Speaker 1: me if you change your mind, or if anything, if
Speaker 1: he comes back or you need me to, I don't know,
Speaker 1: shout at someone on your behalf. I promised I would,
Speaker 1: and after she left, the apartment swelled bigger in the silence.
Speaker 1: This time, it was almost a relief. No shadow in
Speaker 1: the guest room, no movement I had to brace for.
Speaker 1: For the first time in days, I had the impulse
Speaker 1: to return things to order just for myself. I sat
Speaker 1: at my desk with the ghost of old habit, flicked
Speaker 1: open my tablet, and stared at a half-finished sketch, a
Speaker 1: half-broken sitterscape, Night's sky rendered in anxious pencil lines. It
Speaker 1: looked off balance. I wanted to fix it, but my
Speaker 1: hands were trembling too badly. Instead, I simply traced the
Speaker 1: horizon over and over, graphite smudging across my fingers. Every
Speaker 1: few minutes, my mind tried to circle Mark's explanations, the
Speaker 1: defensive hunch of his shoulders, the endless inventory of things
Speaker 1: I must have missed. But whatever anger I'd had earlier ebbed,
Speaker 1: drowned in the fatigue of simple survival. My eyes burned.
Speaker 1: Sometime after midnight, my phone pinged with another text, this
Speaker 1: one from Mark. He wrote, I'm sorry, over and over,
Speaker 1: as if repetition could vault the gap he'd made. He
Speaker 1: asked if we could talk just one more time, if
Speaker 1: he could explain, if he could at least promise to
Speaker 1: make amends. I didn't answer. I set the phone face
Speaker 1: down and stood, suddenly unsteady. There was no message to
Speaker 1: send that would make anything truly final. There was no
Speaker 1: version of the truth that would make him whole again
Speaker 1: in my eyes, or me in his. That was the revelation,
Speaker 1: the one that had taken so many missing weekends and
Speaker 1: evasive explanations to finally become clear. We could not go back.
Speaker 1: There was nothing left unbroken in us to glue together.
Speaker 1: When sleep finally claimed me, it was dreamless, or if
Speaker 1: I dreamed, the images washed away with the morning. The
Speaker 1: next day, the tasks came in small piles. Contact the Landlord,
Speaker 1: update the pet names on our Wi-Fi, field polite notes
Speaker 1: from friends pretending they hadn't heard. I cancelled the mural
Speaker 1: inquiry at the community centre, a neutral note thanking Joan
Speaker 1: for her time. I emptied Mark's last drawer and lined
Speaker 1: up the shoes he'd forgotten. Then I stacked the remaining
Speaker 1: business cards and receipts, the last relics, into a manila envelope.
Speaker 1: I left it by the door. He showed up as
Speaker 1: expected in the early evening. I didn't let him in,
Speaker 1: just cracked the door, He hardly looked at me, face blotchy,
Speaker 1: lips chewed. He took the envelope, nodded, and walked away
Speaker 1: without another word. I closed the door after him and
Speaker 1: locked it twice. That night the city felt louder. I
Speaker 1: flipped through the channels, couldn't settle. I tried reading, gave up.
Speaker 1: I thought of Amara, of her brightly patterned clothes and bold,
Speaker 1: easy laugh. I tried to hate her and failed. The
Speaker 1: fury was all spent, and what was left was nothing
Speaker 1: so dramatic as hate. It was just loss. The hour's
Speaker 1: ground passed in fragments. I threw out the last of
Speaker 1: the pastries, changed the bedsheets, opened every window for air
Speaker 1: that didn't quite come. From the street below, music poured in,
Speaker 1: someone's portable speaker, distorted and bright, a sound that reminded
Speaker 1: me cruelly of the nights before everything changed. I wanted
Speaker 1: to feel angry, but every emotion seemed to slide right
Speaker 1: off the bone. People texted, concerned, supportive, careful in their words.
Speaker 1: I thanked them and meant it, but told none of
Speaker 1: them what I really felt, that I was less betrayed
Speaker 1: now than emptied, as if Mark's absence had excavated some
Speaker 1: extra chamber in my chest and left it ringing. Every
Speaker 1: time I thought of the suitcase, still half-packed on the
Speaker 1: bedroom floor, I felt both foolish and free. It was
Speaker 1: an artefact from the world where Mark and I were
Speaker 1: a team, a world I couldn't simply step back into
Speaker 1: with a slam of the door or a single week's silence.
Speaker 1: The finality settled only gradually. The city washed itself clean
Speaker 1: with rain at dawn. I listened to the quiet as
Speaker 1: if it owed me something for all the noise I'd
Speaker 1: given it, and let myself rest, knowing nothing would ever
Speaker 1: be the same. But for now, at least, that was enough.
Speaker 1: I stood at the window as the sun cut through,
Speaker 1: painting thin yellow lines across the hardwood, and catching on
Speaker 1: my glass of water from the night before. I reached
Speaker 1: for it, sipping, remembering the shape of the evening, Natalie's concern,
Speaker 1: the cold metal of the balcony chair, the torn coffee sleeve.
Speaker 1: I thought for a moment of what to do next,
Speaker 1: what I would do with the suitcase, our friends, if
Speaker 1: I'd ever want to see Mark again, even for closure.
Speaker 1: And then, finally, the real action resolved in me, not
Speaker 1: an ending, but a starter's pistol firing in an empty room.
Speaker 1: I gathered the last things Mark had left, shoebox headphones,
Speaker 1: the last sticky note with his handwriting, and dropped them
Speaker 1: in a paper bag. I texted him once, the message
Speaker 1: short and measured. Left your last things with the doorman.
Speaker 1: Please pick up by tonight. Then I locked the apartment
Speaker 1: behind me, walked down the three flights, and left the
Speaker 1: bag with the doorman, a neutral, pleasant man who took
Speaker 1: it without comment. For the first time since the break,
Speaker 1: I didn't look back up at the windows to see
Speaker 1: whether Mark might be watching from some distant vantage. I
Speaker 1: turned into the evening air, not towards any destination, simply
Speaker 1: forward along the block, lights spilling from restaurant windows and
Speaker 1: the city's racket folding me in. Every step felt oddly weightless.
Speaker 1: It was the opposite of freedom. Not giddy, not expansive,
Speaker 1: but something like peace, the smallest kind, the kind that
Speaker 1: simply doesn't resist. When I returned, the apartment was dim
Speaker 1: and oversized, the absence of marks so present it had
Speaker 1: shape and tone. I sat again on the balcony, as
Speaker 1: I had on that first night, and poured the last
Speaker 1: of the wine into my glass, the suitcase unmoved at
Speaker 1: my feet. I tipped the remaining half of the yellow
Speaker 1: coffee sleeve into the streetlight's glow, flickering edges delicate and final,
Speaker 1: and let myself acknowledge, for a fleeting second, the cost
Speaker 1: of knowing the truth. Then, as the laughter from the
Speaker 1: street swelled and faded, I put my glass down and
Speaker 1: folded my arms onto the balcony rail, letting my breath
Speaker 1: settle in my chest. The future was unknowable, the ache
Speaker 1: still raw, but the city would keep passing by, and
Speaker 1: this time, I would let the silence stand, just long
Speaker 1: enough to trust that I belonged to myself again. And
Speaker 1: that is the end. Thank you for listening, and I
Speaker 1: will see you in the next one.