Speaker 1: It's possible to have everything in one place and still
Speaker 1: feel alone. And maybe that's why my mind latched onto
Speaker 1: the sharp citrus aftertaste of the cheap wine, a note
Speaker 1: that lingered, trying to disguise itself as fresh, but failing.
Speaker 1: Much like this gallery opening, I sat by the window,
Speaker 1: half shadowed, in a room swirling with self importance and
Speaker 1: gallery lighting, watching people I'd known for years loop from
Speaker 1: conversation to conversation in that slightly theatrical way art people have.
Speaker 1: I was waiting for Josh, or maybe I was waiting
Speaker 1: for an excuse to leave. I kept checking the door,
Speaker 1: half hoping to see his familiar slouch and the way
Speaker 1: he always scanned a room for me first, even before
Speaker 1: he registered the art. I clung to that feeling for
Speaker 1: as long as I could. He's probably just on his way,
Speaker 1: Cam said, touching my arm as he breezed past with
Speaker 1: a glass brimming with something turquoise. Text him again, tell
Speaker 1: he's missing Bayard's mustache performance. Cam grinned, but his eyes
Speaker 1: flit across the room and away, and I couldn't shake
Speaker 1: how oddly careful he sounded. I scrolled back through Josh's text,
Speaker 1: running over with the group show team, save me some wine.
Speaker 1: Promise I'll be there soon, standard Josh, all open loops
Speaker 1: and airy promises, but still somehow sincere, I let myself smile,
Speaker 1: finger tips restless at the rim of my glass, classic
Speaker 1: Josh ha, I said aloud, letting the rooms swallow it.
Speaker 1: No one answered. My phone buzzed with a new notification.
Speaker 1: For a second I thought it would be him, a
Speaker 1: selfie in a cab, the sort of silly update he
Speaker 1: threw at me before showing up, needing to know somehow
Speaker 1: whether I still wanted him around. But it was a
Speaker 1: story alert Josh's handle. I opened it and stared a
Speaker 1: flicker of blurred amber, then focus a single candle guttering
Speaker 1: in the foreground, the hot curve of a glos and
Speaker 1: the dreamy interior of a restaurant I recognized. Not expensive,
Speaker 1: not really, but just intimate enough to feel like a treat.
Speaker 1: Josh had said he'd be at the coffee shop on
Speaker 1: ninth with his work team, hashing out project decks over
Speaker 1: burnt lattes. Here there was no coffee, no workshop papers
Speaker 1: spread out, just soft light and a nervous glimpse of
Speaker 1: his watch in the lower left of the shot a
Speaker 1: ring of people's hands, none of them familiar. I waited
Speaker 1: for anger, but all I felt was a coil of
Speaker 1: bottomless doubt. Maybe he ducked out for dinner, maybe the
Speaker 1: team needed real food. Maybe my brain cast for benign explanations.
Speaker 1: But the candle, the privacy, the nonchalant way he panned
Speaker 1: slightly to the right, as if catching someone's attention. It
Speaker 1: felt off. I tried to fix my expression, realizing I
Speaker 1: was frowning, and caught Cam's reflection in the window. He
Speaker 1: was laughing at the bar, but when my eyes met his,
Speaker 1: he hesitated back, straightening, smiled, dimming. When some one mentioned Josh,
Speaker 1: just an offhand, I haven't seen Josh yet? Is he
Speaker 1: late again? Cam's face tensed, and the whole table pivoted
Speaker 1: subject dropped. I turned the glass in my hand, wine
Speaker 1: shining dark against the rim, and told myself to relax.
Speaker 1: Josh was always magnetic, always everywhere, at once, students, gallery, teams, group, shows,
Speaker 1: so many new people as his reputation grew. If anything,
Speaker 1: I should be happy he carved a place among these sharks.
Speaker 1: I told myself, this was the life we'd built, after all,
Speaker 1: art a claim chaos together. But The reaction in the
Speaker 1: air was a warning, faint and chemical as static electricity.
Speaker 1: I texted him, thinking of leaving soon, When do you
Speaker 1: think you'll actually get here? I forced a winking emoji,
Speaker 1: then deleted it too clingy. I settled on just let
Speaker 1: me know if you can no answer. The crowd shifted
Speaker 1: as an artist began an impromptu demo, and for a
Speaker 1: bit I tried to lose myself in the motion, but
Speaker 1: a part of me stayed fixed on my phone and
Speaker 1: the pulsing reminder of unread stories. When Josh finally appeared,
Speaker 1: it was almost closing. He breezed in with apologies, hair towsled,
Speaker 1: cheeks flushed like he'd run several blocks. He pressed a
Speaker 1: kiss to my temple, breath a little warm, and held
Speaker 1: me too tightly for a moment. Sorry, babe. Group work
Speaker 1: session went way over. You know how these shows are.
Speaker 1: I let myself lean in, returning the pressure, cataloging his
Speaker 1: faint scent, the trace of two day old cologne, not
Speaker 1: the kind I'd given him last Christmas, and a new
Speaker 1: detergent note I didn't recognize. He looked tired, genuine, and
Speaker 1: I knew what he was going to say before he
Speaker 1: said it, Did I miss anything good? You missed Cam
Speaker 1: getting glitter bomb by Bayard. I replied the words a
Speaker 1: little brittle, but he didn't notice, or he pretended not to.
Speaker 1: He spun me gently in a lazy dance, forcing a smile,
Speaker 1: and for a few minutes everything was so ordinary and
Speaker 1: familiar that my doubts seemed childish, even to me. I
Speaker 1: let myself believe it, just long enough to forget the
Speaker 1: candle lit photo and the hush in Cam's voice. The
Speaker 1: ride home was quiet. We held hands, our knuckles brushing,
Speaker 1: but I watched more than listened, as Josh recounted art
Speaker 1: world gossip and plans for his next group project, details
Speaker 1: floating out in a rush. It was easier in that
Speaker 1: moment not to interrogate. I let his words fill the
Speaker 1: space between us. Not brave enough yet to look for cracks,
Speaker 1: I told myself, maybe some couples thrive on drama, but
Speaker 1: we had always worked because we held each other up,
Speaker 1: didn't We We d built something real. I tried to
Speaker 1: believe it again as the city blurred by. The First
Speaker 1: time I met Josh, I was so new, so fake.
Speaker 1: He liked to tease me, all desperate enthusiasm and thrift
Speaker 1: store blazes and note books packed with lists about what
Speaker 1: it meant to make it. He was already a fixture
Speaker 1: at those miserable desire conferences, confident enough to skip half
Speaker 1: the panels, eyes always drifting toward what wasn't on the agenda.
Speaker 1: The panel that forged us was a disaster. The keynote speakers,
Speaker 1: Mike went dead, Josh. Then a stranger stood up with
Speaker 1: a marker and started sketching the talk on a white board,
Speaker 1: turning jargon into color and off handed jokes. The rooms shifted,
Speaker 1: everyone focused in, laughing, adding notes, breaking the barrier between
Speaker 1: expert and wannabee. I lingered behind, heart thudding, gathering the
Speaker 1: courage to introduce myself. We wound up sketching murals on
Speaker 1: a concrete wall behind the venue that night, passing the
Speaker 1: same two markers back and forth, daring each other with
Speaker 1: ideas that felt impossible. Electric color theory is just a suggestion,
Speaker 1: he whispered, paint streaking the heel of his hand as
Speaker 1: he pressed it into mine. That hand, long, elegant fingers,
Speaker 1: always smudged with charcoal or ink, became my home. Before
Speaker 1: I realized it, I worked, tangled, quickly. We rented a
Speaker 1: sun bleached studio that smelled of coffee and acrylic scraping
Speaker 1: rent For those first crazy years. Each morning I'd wake
Speaker 1: to the sound of Josh humming, already elbows deep in
Speaker 1: concept sketches, laser focused, but always beckoning, Hey, come look,
Speaker 1: tell me if this sucks. I needed that, I always have,
Speaker 1: even now. My ideas were wild, scattered, His were precise, daring.
Speaker 1: I craved his critique, sometimes feared it, but he never
Speaker 1: let me run from a challenge. Don't hide, he'd say,
Speaker 1: push it out there, trust yourself, or at least pretend
Speaker 1: till you do. We learned how to make each other brave.
Speaker 1: He called out myself sabotage, with a humor that never
Speaker 1: came off as cruel. I did the same for him,
Speaker 1: but softer, giving his relentless drive room to breathe. It
Speaker 1: was never effortless, but we agreed that was the point.
Speaker 1: If one of us sared, the other would anchor. Now,
Speaker 1: seven years later, it's still our morning ritual, settling cross
Speaker 1: legged on the battered rug in the loft the city,
Speaker 1: pressing in outside sketch books, open matching mugs, a silent pack.
Speaker 1: To start the day as creators before anything else. Sometimes
Speaker 1: our knees touch, sometimes not. Sometimes he teases my color
Speaker 1: palette and I roll my eyes, but hear pride in
Speaker 1: the jab. Both of us are freelancers, Me mostly branding
Speaker 1: and public work, Josh more gallery and curatorial gigs. These days,
Speaker 1: we built a real reputation, not just as individual artists,
Speaker 1: but as a creative couple that had a weight group, shows, panels,
Speaker 1: brunches that blurred from networking into actual friendship. Our circles
Speaker 1: overlap so closely it feels like breathing the same air.
Speaker 1: The flip side, we have an unspoken scorecard, moments where
Speaker 1: his successes feel like a critique of my choices and
Speaker 1: mine of his. It's mostly friendly, but sometimes, especially since
Speaker 1: his solo shows started booking out, there's an edge. I
Speaker 1: worry about whether I'm supporting him enough or holding him back.
Speaker 1: Every now and then I have a suspicion he's quietly
Speaker 1: asking the same about me. We joke about who made
Speaker 1: the riskier leap, who's the real creative genius. Neither of
Speaker 1: us admits how much those jokes sting. Sometimes I depend
Speaker 1: on him, maybe too much, when the weight of imposter
Speaker 1: syndrome drags me down. I crave his blunt honesty, but
Speaker 1: I also want to be good enough on my own terms. Josh,
Speaker 1: for all his self assurance, has begun carving out space
Speaker 1: beyond us, and I think I always feared he'd find
Speaker 1: he liked it better. The loft is full of reminders,
Speaker 1: our twin desks by the window, overflowing with half finished pieces,
Speaker 1: the good brushes drying by the sink, jokes left in
Speaker 1: sticky notes on the fridge. Don't drink all the French
Speaker 1: press if you want to live sign Jay and our
Speaker 1: shared contacts criss crossing in both our calendars. Everything in
Speaker 1: our life, work, friends, business is fused. Brunches with the
Speaker 1: art crowd happen almost every weekend Cam, who sarcasm hides
Speaker 1: how much he roots for us, Marsha, who pulled us
Speaker 1: into our first gallery job. Jess and THEO together since
Speaker 1: risd always quick to brag on us to any one.
Speaker 1: Conversations whine from latest grants to whose peace tanked hardest
Speaker 1: at a show. Nobody acts like family quite like this tribe.
Speaker 1: But I always worried in some secret place that if
Speaker 1: anything tilted, I'd be the weak link that night after
Speaker 1: the gallery, Josh fell asleep before me, his arm heavy
Speaker 1: around my waist, and I let my head rest on
Speaker 1: his chest, listening to the patter of late night rain.
Speaker 1: I wanted us to stay like this, grateful, safe, necessary
Speaker 1: to each other. Instead, I stared into the darkness, thinking,
Speaker 1: if he ever drifted, would I even see it before
Speaker 1: it was too late? I told myself then and there
Speaker 1: to let go of doubts. He was busy, he was
Speaker 1: under pressure, deadlines, shows, always another, maybe project hanging in
Speaker 1: the balance. The world would pull us apart if I
Speaker 1: let it. So I closed my eyes and made a
Speaker 1: promise to keep building, no matter how clumsy or tired
Speaker 1: I felt. I just didn't know how quickly that promise
Speaker 1: would be tested. A week later, Josh's phone alarm woke
Speaker 1: us both at six, a rarity even for him. He
Speaker 1: was already out of bed, hunting for his cleanest buttoned
Speaker 1: and shirt, smoothing it twice in the bathroom before emerging.
Speaker 1: Fingers combed through damp hair. You closing a deal or
Speaker 1: going under cover? I teased, sipping coffee at the kitchen island,
Speaker 1: sketch book open but mostly abandoned, as I watched him
Speaker 1: He grinned, but kept straightening his cuffs. Just a coffee
Speaker 1: with a new client, supposed to be a big potential project,
Speaker 1: got her impress right, he laughed, but his tone was
Speaker 1: off a little thin. Trying to seduce them with cologne too.
Speaker 1: I lifted an eyebrow, half joking, half probing. He hated
Speaker 1: spending money on shaving cream, but here he was fresh
Speaker 1: as date night. He shrugged, smile, holding, Hey, maybe I
Speaker 1: finally learned from you. Gotta keep the creative mystik alive, right.
Speaker 1: He checked the time twice, pecked my cheek, grabbed his folder,
Speaker 1: and ducked out so fast his mug clattered, nearly spilling.
Speaker 1: I watched the door swing shut, listening to the echo
Speaker 1: round noon. The want of distraction pulled me into tidying
Speaker 1: his side of the studio. I gathered up loose receipts,
Speaker 1: half finished notes, and an odd, shiny gallery brochure tucked
Speaker 1: inside his sketch book. I thumbed it open, half expecting
Speaker 1: the usual meet the Artist profels. Instead, the back had
Speaker 1: a looping blue pen scrawl mere Dorsey and a phone
Speaker 1: number Josh's writing. I blinked, then rolled my shoulders cycling
Speaker 1: through explanations, A volunteer, new team member, model gallerist. We
Speaker 1: meet fifty people a week, I reminded myself. I slipped
Speaker 1: it back into his drawer. There was no reason to dwell,
Speaker 1: no reason to imagine he ducked out for anything other
Speaker 1: than work. He didn't get home till almost ten. When
Speaker 1: he walked in. He dropped his bag and slouched against
Speaker 1: the wall, eyes ringed with exhaustion, but not the worn
Speaker 1: out pleasure of a deal closed workshop hell, he said,
Speaker 1: rolling the tension out of his neck, your worst nightmare,
Speaker 1: hours of bad coffee, everybody talking at once. I tried
Speaker 1: to laugh, but when I asked who'd finally SHOWNE up?
Speaker 1: He hesitated, shoulders tensing the usual mix. Marsha, A couple
Speaker 1: of the interns, that guy who always wears shorts year round.
Speaker 1: You'd recognize them. I waited, but that was it. He
Speaker 1: asked what I'd worked on, snatched his phone, faced down,
Speaker 1: off the counter, and shut himself in the studio. I
Speaker 1: told myself not to read into it, that late nights
Speaker 1: would kill any one's mood. Still, the number nagged me
Speaker 1: that week. His phone became a prop, always nestled face down,
Speaker 1: never left on a table. I glanced once, but the
Speaker 1: lock screen now showed no previews, a tidy, little privacy tweak.
Speaker 1: I told myself he must be worried about client leaks.
Speaker 1: I didn't mention the brochure. I tried to remind myself
Speaker 1: that even good marriages have secrets, small necessary ones if
Speaker 1: you want to remain whole. But the suggestion wouldn't leave.
Speaker 1: Instead of easing, it hovered an itch, just beneath the surface,
Speaker 1: barely out of reach. I half expected him to crack
Speaker 1: a joke about it. Hey, you snooped in my stuff again,
Speaker 1: But there was only a careful unease, as if he
Speaker 1: sensed I had left something out too. A few days later,
Speaker 1: while scrolling through tagged photos from gallery events looking for inspiration,
Speaker 1: I told myself I paused. Josh showed up in a
Speaker 1: snap shot from a party he'd never mentioned. Not just him,
Speaker 1: but Mer, the same name on the brochure, whispered close
Speaker 1: in the background, her hand on his arm. Both caught
Speaker 1: mid laugh. The photo belonged to one of Cam's old
Speaker 1: class mates. My stomach twisted. I stared at the screen,
Speaker 1: studying the curve of their bodies, just enough space for
Speaker 1: plausible deniability, just enough intimacy for a slow acid of doubt.
Speaker 1: Josh had said he'd been mentoring at the workshop that night.
Speaker 1: I hit up Cam, hoping for clarification or reassurance. He
Speaker 1: came by the loft to grab some canvases. Pale sons,
Speaker 1: slanted over half finished commissions as he wandered in, picking
Speaker 1: up one of Josh's new pieces, turning it over thoughtfully.
Speaker 1: So Josh is working with me a lot now, Ha,
Speaker 1: guy's got energy for days, he remarked off hand. I
Speaker 1: tried for breezy wary. Yeah, seems like it. I don't
Speaker 1: really know her, he shrugged, suddenly absorbed in the painting groups.
Speaker 1: Stuff's crazy, right, networking, new faces, you know how it is.
Speaker 1: I wanted to push since when did Josh take on
Speaker 1: sidekicks without saying a word, But Cam busied himself zipping
Speaker 1: his tote, gave a chepy good luck finishing before deadline,
Speaker 1: and extricated himself before I could ask more. That week
Speaker 1: end brunch with the group felt like walking on to
Speaker 1: a tilting stage. I watched as conversation rose and fell,
Speaker 1: plaits of French toast getting cold. Every one animated until
Speaker 1: I offered, Josh has been killing it with that client presentation.
Speaker 1: I'm so proud. There was a brief, awkward beat. Marsha
Speaker 1: froze eggs half way to her mouth. Some one at
Speaker 1: the end of the table Murmur muttered, that was a
Speaker 1: group thing, right, Cam's laugh sounded tinny, forced. I laughed,
Speaker 1: tried to brush it off, noting how Jess and THEO
Speaker 1: glanced at each other. Maybe I was reading in But
Speaker 1: when I pressed for details, so what part did Josh handle,
Speaker 1: Marsha spooled off into a story about her own work.
Speaker 1: Never answering at home, I went looking for facts, opening
Speaker 1: his desk drawer on the pretense of finding a sharpener,
Speaker 1: I found receipts folded neatly in an envelope, trendy bars
Speaker 1: we'd never visited, room charges for a boutique hotel in
Speaker 1: the arts district, all posted during hours Josh had claimed
Speaker 1: he was running his beginner's workshop. The charges weren't extravagant,
Speaker 1: just precise, two drinks, appetizers, one room, one night. Doubt
Speaker 1: grew sour in my throat. Still, I told myself, maybe
Speaker 1: he's booking the space for team meetings. Maybe he's entertaining gallerists.
Speaker 1: I stacked the receipts, smoothing them flat. But the hotel
Speaker 1: was easily walking distance from our loft, no reason to
Speaker 1: stay over. Josh invited me to the opening of a
Speaker 1: new group show he was curating. Asked, for the first
Speaker 1: time in weeks, that I see his proudest line up yet.
Speaker 1: I tried to catch his mood in the hours before,
Speaker 1: but he was distracted, hands flying over emils, jaw tight
Speaker 1: but friendly. Even in the cab over, we stayed polite,
Speaker 1: the old banter replaced by questions about catering and last
Speaker 1: minute artwork placements. The show was packed, a bonfire of
Speaker 1: peating egos. I lost track of the people who said,
Speaker 1: your husband's a rock star, you must be so proud,
Speaker 1: their faces expectant, searching my own. I watched Josh work
Speaker 1: the floor, pausing often beside mere, heads inclined over a
Speaker 1: hanging piece, eyes sharing a joke I couldn't quite catch.
Speaker 1: She radiated a hungry, embryonic energy I half remember from
Speaker 1: my own first years, brilliant and eager and slightly chaotic.
Speaker 1: Each time they lingered together, their body language told stories.
Speaker 1: The casual exchange of a paint marker a laugh that
Speaker 1: lingered a touch to his elbow when she moved past
Speaker 1: little things. A knot of anger bunched inside me. But
Speaker 1: when Josh caught my gaze, he smiled wide, performative, the
Speaker 1: way he does when he feels watched. After he pulled
Speaker 1: me into a back room, as though to steal a
Speaker 1: private moment, but the tension hung between us, unsayable. I
Speaker 1: told myself to trust him, but watched near out of
Speaker 1: the corner of my eye, laughing with theo glaceancing my
Speaker 1: way with a flicker of challenge. Later that night, back home,
Speaker 1: we snapped at each other over missing keys and left
Speaker 1: over take out arguments flared out of nothing. He insisted
Speaker 1: he needed more space for creativity, that maybe our routine
Speaker 1: was crushing his momentum, that he wished I didn't jump
Speaker 1: to conclusions about every hour he worked. I wanted to
Speaker 1: scream or conclusions, but I froze instead. Every muscle bottled tight,
Speaker 1: afraid that one wrong word would scramble this last thread
Speaker 1: between us. My work suffered. I ruined two commissions. I
Speaker 1: started ducking calls from clients, excusing myself from the art
Speaker 1: group text, unwilling to frame questions that would sound petty
Speaker 1: and desperate. I needed to talk, to reach out, but
Speaker 1: every friend felt like Switzerland, too close to Josh, too
Speaker 1: tangled with both of us. I was afraid of what
Speaker 1: I'd hear, afraid of what even a single careless confirmation
Speaker 1: would do. One night, as I was putting away brushes,
Speaker 1: Josh breezed in, suddenly gleeful. Hey, hope you don't mind.
Speaker 1: I invited Mere over. She wanted some portfolio advice. Two
Speaker 1: brains are better than one, right. I said nothing of
Speaker 1: my internal earthquake, only nodded and forced my voice steady.
Speaker 1: Sure Mir arrived half an hour later, her hair pulled back,
Speaker 1: laptop bags slung over her shoulder. She was friendly, earnest.
Speaker 1: She offered me a print of her abstract studies, said
Speaker 1: she followed my work on Instagram. We gathered around our
Speaker 1: battered kitchen table as she showed her digital portfolio. Every piece, explained,
Speaker 1: her eyes darting to Josh for affirmation. Throughout, Josh kept
Speaker 1: a polite distance, making jokes about how my wife is
Speaker 1: my harshest critic. He exaggerated his feedback, even criticized her
Speaker 1: color choices, glancing my way to see me laugh as
Speaker 1: if demonstrating he still belonged here. The mood was awkward,
Speaker 1: but strictly professional. When she left, the air cleared, I
Speaker 1: found myself strangely relieved, as if I'd hallucinated everything for
Speaker 1: the first time in weeks. Josh pulled me close, holding
Speaker 1: on longer than usual. Let's do something fun, he said,
Speaker 1: ordering our favorite tie gulping pad cu out of the box,
Speaker 1: proposing we unplug for a weekend, a real escape. I
Speaker 1: let myself buy in. That night, we flicked through B
Speaker 1: and bs, planning hikes and art walks. He kissed my
Speaker 1: shoulder as I worked on a commission. I convinced myself
Speaker 1: I'd invented the whole thing. Career jealousy a byproduct of
Speaker 1: my own anxiety as jobs dried up. Relief is a
Speaker 1: fleeting thing, easily shattered. At two a m my phone vibrated, Cam,
Speaker 1: are you okay? You don't have to pretend with us?
Speaker 1: I stared into the ceiling, the chill spreading through me.
Speaker 1: I texted back, what are you talking about? But he
Speaker 1: didn't reply. I lay awake, replaying every conversation, every glance,
Speaker 1: wondering what every one else saw that I didn't. Kam's
Speaker 1: message gnawed at me in the cold light of morning.
Speaker 1: It colored everything, the distance in Josh's touch, the too
Speaker 1: shiny way he'd offered reassurance right after mere left. The
Speaker 1: sense of being kept just outside a circle where I
Speaker 1: once belonged, the relief I had savored felt staged a
Speaker 1: set piece. I opened my laptop and started looking, no
Speaker 1: longer for reassurance, but for patten, For something to make
Speaker 1: sense of the dissonance. I pulled up Josh's Google calendar,
Speaker 1: the one we both shared when our schedules were too
Speaker 1: manic to keep straight. He d started hiding some of
Speaker 1: his events weeks ago. I'd noticed but not cared, figuring
Speaker 1: it was his way of managing privacy. Now I compared
Speaker 1: the old workshop invites, show schedules, details I remembered him sharing,
Speaker 1: versus what his public listings and contacts revealed. I spent
Speaker 1: hours cross referencing. Was he really at the gallery the
Speaker 1: night of drinks with the team. Did Marsha's Instagram story
Speaker 1: match his timeline? Many of his workshops didn't exist. Half
Speaker 1: the show openings he claimed to be managing never materialized, small,
Speaker 1: barely noticeable, but enough. I called Marsha, framing it as
Speaker 1: a check in about group meetings, fishing for confirmation without
Speaker 1: sounding desperate. After some typical back and forth about sponsorships
Speaker 1: and upcoming murals, she paused, let's grab lunch soon. I
Speaker 1: could use a brake. Are you sleeping okay? Her tone
Speaker 1: was gentle, strange, but she didn't elaborate. Meanwhile, it felt
Speaker 1: as though everyone else's gaze held a lair. I couldn't
Speaker 1: see pity maybe or silent complicity. I scrolled through social
Speaker 1: feeds and group texts, finding more photos of Josh at
Speaker 1: events and bars, never alone, mere showing up in half
Speaker 1: of them. In one, she's laughing at something, he whispers,
Speaker 1: hands splayed on his chest. The caption reads dream Team
Speaker 1: at it again and it's from a mutual friend. No
Speaker 1: mention of me. I started skipping out on everything, declined invitations,
Speaker 1: let my messages, pile up, My sketch books filled with
Speaker 1: false starts, nothing ready to show, lines that trailed off
Speaker 1: without form. I couldn't paint, couldn't concentrate. That Monday, Marsha
Speaker 1: messaged again, insisting on lunch. We met at a bakery
Speaker 1: where she ordered me my favorite and fussed over her
Speaker 1: hair for the first time since March. Half Way through,
Speaker 1: she put her phone faced on and twisted in her chair. Elena,
Speaker 1: I'm sorry this doesn't feel fair to you. But a
Speaker 1: few weeks ago I saw Josh and mea coming out
Speaker 1: of Lumina Bar together late. They seemed close, more than
Speaker 1: work friends. I didn't know how to say anything. Nobody
Speaker 1: wanted to hurt you. Her words landed so softly at
Speaker 1: first I didn't fully absorb them. I made noises like
Speaker 1: thanks for telling me, and probably nothing right, but my
Speaker 1: ears rang that image mere Josh. Late night, the secretive
Speaker 1: hush looped, each time, gaining weight. I called Cam as
Speaker 1: soon as I got home, voice shaking, needing clarity or contradiction.
Speaker 1: At first, he deflected, but when I pressed, his tone changed. Look, Elina,
Speaker 1: people have noticed things. I didn't want to be the
Speaker 1: one to say it, but yeah, most of the group
Speaker 1: knows about Josh and Miha. We just every one figured
Speaker 1: you should hear it from him, not through gossip. Silence
Speaker 1: crackled between us, heavy and accusatory. I wanted to scream
Speaker 1: at him, at all of them for thinking silence was kindness. Instead,
Speaker 1: I hung up, staggered to my work space, unable to
Speaker 1: draw a single line that didn't tremble. The loft became alien,
Speaker 1: the air too thick, every object and accusation. I stopped sleeping,
Speaker 1: I stopped eating MEA's face taunted me through endless social posts,
Speaker 1: always with Josh, always tagged in some new creative retreat.
Speaker 1: The final crack came one sweaty Saturday, when a story
Speaker 1: landed on my feed, an Instagram post of a secluded
Speaker 1: a frame cabin, the caption best creative partner I could
Speaker 1: ask for. My heart is full. Josh was tagged. It
Speaker 1: was the kind of place we dreamed about renting together,
Speaker 1: pitching deadlines and city noise out the window, just the
Speaker 1: two of us and our paints. Now it was proof,
Speaker 1: ugly and public, that she had replaced me in the
Speaker 1: only place I wanted to be essential. I closed my phone,
Speaker 1: the loft blurred by angry tears. My mind splintered between
Speaker 1: disbelief and a raw, gnawing sense of humiliation. I was
Speaker 1: exiled from my own life. My only comfort that I
Speaker 1: could still finally see the shape of what had been
Speaker 1: taken from me, even if I had no idea what
Speaker 1: to do with it. Yet. I left my phone face
Speaker 1: down on the kitchen table and wandered the perimeter of
Speaker 1: the loft ripe with that anxious energy that always hits
Speaker 1: when nothing is left to distract me. The afternoon light,
Speaker 1: once our favorite water color wash across the east wall,
Speaker 1: now felt intrusive, catching on every object that tied me
Speaker 1: to Josh. Mismatched mugs lined up above the sink, jars
Speaker 1: of colored pencils and dry bristly paint brushes, a print
Speaker 1: I'd bought at a holiday market, even the smudge of
Speaker 1: red wine on his desk from months ago. Everything held
Speaker 1: some echo of us. Now it all seemed to whisper
Speaker 1: names that weren't mine, half out of stubbornness, half from
Speaker 1: a desperate need for some explanation. I opened a fresh
Speaker 1: sketch book. I pressed my fists to the blank page,
Speaker 1: searching for something anger, creativity, even pain to spill out.
Speaker 1: But my hand hovered paralyzed. I couldn't draw a straight line.
Speaker 1: My mind would not quiet down unless I found out more.
Speaker 1: I got up, pacing, running through options. Could I call
Speaker 1: mere ask her point blank? That felt dangerous, an open
Speaker 1: invitation for her to feign ignorance or worse, pity me.
Speaker 1: Could I just wait for Josh? To get home confront
Speaker 1: him with nothing but gut feeling. It would be laughably
Speaker 1: easy for him to turn it on me. Your paranoid,
Speaker 1: your threat, and you don't trust me. You're jealous. I
Speaker 1: could already hear it. The ache was beyond jealousy. It
Speaker 1: was the growing sense that my life had a missing outline,
Speaker 1: something the people closest to us had already started coloring in,
Speaker 1: but I was the last to see the image. Late
Speaker 1: that night, I pulled up meres social media. I hated
Speaker 1: every second of it, knowing that if the tables were
Speaker 1: turned I would never have kept anything secret from Josh.
Speaker 1: I scrolled her feed for clues she might be careless
Speaker 1: enough to leave. She wasn't exactly cryptic, but she was savvy.
Speaker 1: Posts about installations, snap shots of paint splattered jeans, coffee
Speaker 1: with festival curators. But every so often a photo would
Speaker 1: have a blurred corner with a familiar sleeve or ring
Speaker 1: or sketch book details that belonged to him embedded, like
Speaker 1: private water marks. No couple photos, but the intimacy of
Speaker 1: shared rituals was there, visible to any one who knew
Speaker 1: how to look. Each photo unsettled me, but I kept searching,
Speaker 1: driven by some stubborn need for accuracy, evidence more solid
Speaker 1: than rumor, and careful avoidance. I spent the next morning
Speaker 1: methodically reviewing everything, receipts, event flyers, emil threads, his calendar,
Speaker 1: even the bank's statements we technically both had access to
Speaker 1: but never really checked. I found one from Cromer, a
Speaker 1: bar Josh and I had only joked about visiting from
Speaker 1: two weeks prior. The bill for two cocktails, both signature ones,
Speaker 1: and a plate of duck fat fries, time stamped after
Speaker 1: midnight on a Thursday, a night he'd come home late
Speaker 1: from last round edits with the gallery owner, but I
Speaker 1: remembered him swearing off drinks to prep early for a
Speaker 1: workshop the next day. I tried to remember what I'd
Speaker 1: been doing that night, answering client e mails, probably waiting up,
Speaker 1: maybe sketch book in my lap, watching rains smear the window.
Speaker 1: I couldn't remember if he'd kissed me good night, or
Speaker 1: if I'd even been awake. The gap felt endless. Desire
Speaker 1: for clarity became obsession. I scrolled through group chats, hunting
Speaker 1: for any offhand reference to these late night brainstorming sessions.
Speaker 1: Most of the time the mention stopped short or side
Speaker 1: stepped completely, and then one buried link Marsha sharing an
Speaker 1: event recap from a pop up salon held at a
Speaker 1: tiny book store chock full of candid shots. There was
Speaker 1: Josh conducting an impromptu critique, gesturing passionately, and in the corner, Mere,
Speaker 1: her chin propped on her hand, watching him, not wrapped. No,
Speaker 1: the look was deeper than that, assured, like she knew
Speaker 1: every punch line already. I blinked at the time stamp.
Speaker 1: He d told me he'd be home by ten, boring
Speaker 1: administrative stuff. He'd arrived at one a m. That night.
Speaker 1: I let myself think, really consider for the first time,
Speaker 1: what if Mere wasn't the only secret, or what if
Speaker 1: she was? But the affair had moved beyond art, beyond
Speaker 1: even infatuation, into a zone I was banned from. Did
Speaker 1: all the creative energy I felt leaking from him belong
Speaker 1: to her? Now? Was he only pretending here with me
Speaker 1: for the comfort of our shared history and friends? The
Speaker 1: internal arguments ran in circles, as if saying the words
Speaker 1: in my head could excize them. I wanted needed to
Speaker 1: know more. It was easy to become obsessed with the
Speaker 1: evidence to let proof become its own form of comfort,
Speaker 1: even as it opened wounds. I wanted, irrationally for the
Speaker 1: affair to be dumb and impulsive, the sort of mistake
Speaker 1: you could blame on creative burnout or mid career panic.
Speaker 1: Anything more deliberate, more entangled, would mean years of trust.
Speaker 1: Our trust had been quietly devalued. The next day, I
Speaker 1: called in sick to my two client gigs and spent
Speaker 1: hours walking up town, headphones on, breathing as if I
Speaker 1: could force my brain into quiet through sheer exhaustion. Eventually,
Speaker 1: I looped back to the places I'd found receipts for Cromer,
Speaker 1: that little bakery where Marsher had looked away from me,
Speaker 1: even the coffee shop Josh frequented. I ordered a coffee
Speaker 1: at Chromer, let my fingers trace the cracks in the
Speaker 1: glossy bar top. Imagined him sitting here, maybe MEA's laugh
Speaker 1: rising beside him, the two of them pretending to be
Speaker 1: just collaborators, the world nodding along. I thought about marching home,
Speaker 1: tearing through his work bag for a trace of her
Speaker 1: lipstick a pen. I considered calling Mia, just to see
Speaker 1: how her voice sounded when faced with someone who wasn't
Speaker 1: a fan or a peer, but a wife. When I
Speaker 1: got back to the loft, the light had deepened, streaked
Speaker 1: across my sketches, piled untouched on the dining table. Josh
Speaker 1: wouldn't be home for another hour. He was wrapping up
Speaker 1: with the gallery team again. He'd texted, always the gallery team,
Speaker 1: always a little late, always some plausible detail. I decided
Speaker 1: not to wait for him in the usual way. Instead,
Speaker 1: I made dinner, Not the two plated candle at variety
Speaker 1: we d once made on slow Friday nights, but a
Speaker 1: solo bowl of pasta and a glass of the good
Speaker 1: red we used to save for celebrating. I ate it,
Speaker 1: standing the room, humming with a strange tense energy. He
Speaker 1: walked in around eight keys, jangling, breathless in that way
Speaker 1: that used to charm me. Hey, babe, sorry, lost track
Speaker 1: of time. He dumped his bag beside the shoe rack,
Speaker 1: traffic's nuts on forth. I nodded, barely meeting his eyes.
Speaker 1: You hungry, I asked, keeping my voice level. He looked
Speaker 1: momentarily relieved, then cautious, starving, Actually, what's that the malbeck
Speaker 1: we were hoarding? I kept my face neutral, figured it
Speaker 1: was going to waste one sum He poured a glass,
Speaker 1: sipping quickly. God, I needed this. He raked his fingers
Speaker 1: through his hair, avoiding my gaze. After a moment, he ventured,
Speaker 1: how was your day? I stared at the rim of
Speaker 1: my glass, uneventful. I poured, tried to sound as unthreatening
Speaker 1: as possible. Get much done with the team? He hesitated
Speaker 1: the smallest flicker. Yeah, we're making headway. It's kind of exhausting, though,
Speaker 1: you know, keeping everyone on track like herding cats. He
Speaker 1: looked up, forcing a grin. But it's worth it for
Speaker 1: the final product. I nodded, letting the silence press between us.
Speaker 1: Something in the room had changed. He must have felt
Speaker 1: it too, because after a while he retreated to the studio,
Speaker 1: door shut but not quite closed. I listened to the
Speaker 1: scratch of his pencils, the familiar rhythm for a while
Speaker 1: before going to bed alone. A couple of nights later,
Speaker 1: I heard him talking softly on the phone in the hallway.
Speaker 1: At first I thought it might be a client, his
Speaker 1: gallery voice low and eager, but I stepped out to
Speaker 1: grab my water bottle and he flinched, cutting the call short.
Speaker 1: He joked lamely, sorry, Marsha had a question about a
Speaker 1: paint order. She's clueless with appliers. The lie was too easy,
Speaker 1: said with practiced comfort, as if he knew I wouldn't
Speaker 1: challenge him. That week end was a friend's birthday. THEO
Speaker 1: turned thirty five, and the party sprawled from roof top
Speaker 1: to apartment, a chaotic reunion of our art crowd. Josh
Speaker 1: offered to meet me there. He had to swing by
Speaker 1: the studio first to grab some print proofs. I arrived alone,
Speaker 1: scanning for his familiar silhouette. Cam waved me over, clinking
Speaker 1: a glass of gin and tonic in greeting. I sidled up,
Speaker 1: glancing around Josh running late again. Kam asked, and this
Speaker 1: time the tone was clipped, not joking, studio bound apparently,
Speaker 1: I replied, trying to keep it light. Km's response was
Speaker 1: a strained smile. You too could have a reality show. Honestly,
Speaker 1: he'll show he always does, I said, watching Kam's eyes
Speaker 1: shift away. He ducked his head, muttering something about needing
Speaker 1: to check the ice. I watched the circle of our friends,
Speaker 1: Marsha holding court near the kitchen, Jess and THEO deep
Speaker 1: in conversation, The others grouped in knots, laughing and spinning stories.
Speaker 1: When Josh arrived, he entered with that familiar kinetic energy,
Speaker 1: high fiving THEO, hugging Jess, but his eyes scanned the room,
Speaker 1: landing lightly on me, flickering to Cam, then barely perceptibly
Speaker 1: passed Marsha to where Mea stood at the drink's table,
Speaker 1: gathering garnishes for her cocktail. They didn't speak right away,
Speaker 1: but their bodies magnetized, gravitating to the same end of
Speaker 1: the kitchen, laughing at a private joke, leaning close at
Speaker 1: the counter. No one else seemed to notice, or if
Speaker 1: they did, they were too polite or too complicit to
Speaker 1: acknowledge the current between them. Josh eventually made a point
Speaker 1: to Rome, as he called it, stopping to fill my
Speaker 1: glass and squeeze my shoulder. But I could feel the
Speaker 1: split attention, a gentle presence, but not wholly. Here we
Speaker 1: drifted from conversation to conversation, and when I excused myself
Speaker 1: to use the restroom, I emerged to find Josh and
Speaker 1: mea hunch together at the balcony door, heads bent over
Speaker 1: a note book, arguing amiably about color harmony. She laughed,
Speaker 1: touching his wrist, and he didn't pull away. As we left. Later,
Speaker 1: walking the three blocks home, I tried, awkwardly, fumbling for
Speaker 1: connection to link my arm in his. He let it
Speaker 1: happen for a few steps, then detached to check his phone,
Speaker 1: face a blank slate, long night, he said. As we
Speaker 1: climbed the stairs, you handled it like a pro. I
Speaker 1: know those crowds can be a lot. He ruffled my
Speaker 1: hair like I was a kid. Not too hard with
Speaker 1: you as social director. I replied, the words more brittle
Speaker 1: than I intended. He raised an eyebrow. Hey, I'm lucky
Speaker 1: anyone wants to talk to me with you around, superstar.
Speaker 1: His tone was the old familiar, but the warmth didn't
Speaker 1: quite reach his eyes. We undressed silently, brushing teeth in
Speaker 1: choreographed quiet, The routines that once tethered us now making
Speaker 1: me feel ghost like. I lay awake, hype, aware of
Speaker 1: every turn he made in bed, every peaceful sigh. I
Speaker 1: wondered how often he'd lain like this, keeping secrets within
Speaker 1: arm's reach. The days started to blur, My energy, draining confidence, unraveling.
Speaker 1: My work already brittle crumbled further. I missed two client deadlines,
Speaker 1: lied about a family emergency, just so I could lie
Speaker 1: in bed, listening to the morning rush below and wonder
Speaker 1: how I'd managed to become such a cliche, the wife
Speaker 1: who'd rather suffocate on self doubt than face the truth
Speaker 1: head on. I found myself growing resentful, not just of Josh,
Speaker 1: but of every one in our circle. Their silences felt
Speaker 1: pointed a choreographed dance I wasn't invited to join. Was
Speaker 1: I truly the last to see? It? Was this? Why
Speaker 1: Cam tensed around me? Why Marsha looked away when I
Speaker 1: bragged about Josh. Why even Jess, usually so quick to commiserate,
Speaker 1: hadn't replied to my tees Next last week, one night,
Speaker 1: needing any crumb of clarity, I dropped by Marsha's studio
Speaker 1: under the pretense of returning a scarf. She greeted me
Speaker 1: with wary warmth, her gaze sharp and searching. We talked
Speaker 1: about everything but the subject at hand, grants, upcoming juries,
Speaker 1: her cat's new hematite collar. I circled closer, trying to
Speaker 1: find an opening. Finally, I blurted out, Marsha, have I
Speaker 1: done something to offend people? I get the feeling the
Speaker 1: group's changed, or maybe I'm just out of the loop lately.
Speaker 1: She stilled, then busied herself straightening a stack of linen.
Speaker 1: Things have been tough all over. People get busy, you know,
Speaker 1: sometimes we orbit. I lowered my voice. You looked upset
Speaker 1: the other day when I mentioned Josh's show. Is there
Speaker 1: something going on? My throat felt raw. For a moment,
Speaker 1: she nearly caved, but then she only shook her head.
Speaker 1: Nothing new, People gossip, she smiled, forced, and I knew
Speaker 1: then she wouldn't be the first to break the silence.
Speaker 1: My heart twisted a sharp pulse of humiliation. I thanked her,
Speaker 1: made an excuse about needing to check on a client job,
Speaker 1: and left, letting the chill wind whip at my exposed
Speaker 1: hands as I walked home. The next day, at brunch,
Speaker 1: I resolved to watch, not speak. I tracked everyone's body
Speaker 1: language the way I might analyze a composition where people leaned,
Speaker 1: who was quick to steer the conversation. When Miha came up,
Speaker 1: an awkward quiet settled, as if her name itself was dangerous.
Speaker 1: I finally understood how tightly the circle had closed to
Speaker 1: protect its own symmetry, even if it meant pushing me
Speaker 1: to the periphery. That night, as we cleaned up, I
Speaker 1: mustered the courage to bring up mea to Josh, keeping
Speaker 1: my tone casual. She's been around a lot, hasn't she?
Speaker 1: I see her tagged in so many posts lately. Josh's
Speaker 1: response was practiced, almost bored. Yeah, she's working her ass off.
Speaker 1: You know how these up hand comes are always on,
Speaker 1: always networked. She'll burn out at this rate. He kept
Speaker 1: his eyes pointedly fixed on the dishes, never glancing at me.
Speaker 1: I pressed a little, you get along right? Are you
Speaker 1: mentoring her or is it more of a collaboration? He
Speaker 1: exhaled a little annoyed. Does it matter? I'm just helping
Speaker 1: her find her feet. She's talented but lacks confidence. Sound familiar?
Speaker 1: He flashed me a forced grin. When I'd seen him
Speaker 1: use on clients. It struck me he'd flip the question,
Speaker 1: turning my own insecurities into the punchline. I didn't answer.
Speaker 1: He slipped out to take a work call on the
Speaker 1: fire escape. I watched his hunched profile against the city lights,
Speaker 1: his voice low and quick. I told myself again that
Speaker 1: if he was truly cheating, he wouldn't take calls within earshot.
Speaker 1: But then I remembered, Like everything else, the performance only
Speaker 1: had to be convincing to the person least willing to
Speaker 1: believe otherwise. Later that week, a small package arrived, no
Speaker 1: returning dress, just my name. Inside was a printed card
Speaker 1: you Still Have Friends. Tucked inside a photo printed on
Speaker 1: glossy paper, uncaptioned Josh and Mir side by side at
Speaker 1: the cabin from the Instagram story. They weren't touching, but
Speaker 1: the pose was unmistakable. Her head tilted toward him, his
Speaker 1: hand resting on the small of her back. It was
Speaker 1: a photo someone would only take at a couple's retreat.
Speaker 1: The expressions relaxed, eyes meeting in private humor. My breath
Speaker 1: left me in a rush. Who scented cam Marsha jess
Speaker 1: or someone wanting to nudge me into action, some one
Speaker 1: tired of all the careful silence. I started to cry,
Speaker 1: not because of the photo, but because of the raw
Speaker 1: animal way my body registered reality. For the first time,
Speaker 1: I had been written out of my own life, and
Speaker 1: nobody had bothered explaining why. I wanted to rage, to scream,
Speaker 1: to shatter the fragile, curated surface of our so called
Speaker 1: happy marriage. Instead, I slumped on the floor, staring at
Speaker 1: the image until it blurred. My sobs quiet so as
Speaker 1: not to alert the neighbors through the thin walls. An
Speaker 1: hour later, buoyed by adrenaline, I made one last attempt
Speaker 1: to reclaim the story. I messaged Cam, Please tell me
Speaker 1: what's going on. I'm not angry, I just need facts.
Speaker 1: He replied, immediately, come over, just you. Cam's place was cramped,
Speaker 1: untouched by the staged elegance of the art scene, old posters,
Speaker 1: piles of half read books, paint splattered jenes on the sofa.
Speaker 1: He made tea, pressing the mug into my hands, his
Speaker 1: own trembling. Why didn't you say anything, I whispered, voice hoarse,
Speaker 1: He hesitated, eyes read. We thought he'd tell you himself.
Speaker 1: We didn't want to interfere, but after a while it
Speaker 1: was easier to pretend nothing was happening. Nobody wanted to
Speaker 1: be the one who wrecked anything. My voice broke. So
Speaker 1: what is happening? How long he raked a hand and
Speaker 1: through his hair. No one knows everything, but months, maybe longer.
Speaker 1: He and me are everywhere together. It's not subtle any more.
Speaker 1: I'm sorry, Lena. Did she know about me? About us?
Speaker 1: Of course she knew. Everyone knows Cam's hands shook anger,
Speaker 1: bleeding through the guilt, but it's the scene. Everyone swears
Speaker 1: by artist integrity, but nobody wants to risk the social fallout.
Speaker 1: I sipped the tea, wishing for an answer, a map
Speaker 1: out of this. Why didn't any one warn me? He
Speaker 1: met my eyes with real pain, because we thought, maybe,
Speaker 1: just maybe it would pass, or you'd already figured it
Speaker 1: out and you just didn't want to talk about it.
Speaker 1: I laughed, ugly and hollow. I guess you all think
Speaker 1: you protected me, He looked away. No, I think maybe
Speaker 1: we protected ourselves. At home, the loft felt smaller than ever.
Speaker 1: Every corner screamed with the memory of what had been collaboration, love, security.
Speaker 1: I packed a go bag, the sort I used to
Speaker 1: take to residencies, but every item a hoodie of his,
Speaker 1: an old travel mug, dried out markers felt treacherous. As
Speaker 1: midnight slipped into morning, I tried to sleep, but lying
Speaker 1: beside Josh now was unbearable. When he turned toward me,
Speaker 1: I feigned sleep, heart racing. Tomorrow I would assemble my evidence, receipts, photos, statements,
Speaker 1: even the cruel clarity of Cam's voice. Tomorrow I would
Speaker 1: ask the questions I feared most. But in the hush
Speaker 1: of that hour, between fear and determination, I realized something else.
Speaker 1: Even if the answers gutted me, they would at last
Speaker 1: be real. I didn't sleep. The hours contracted around my
Speaker 1: rib cage as I waited in a half dream, adrenaline
Speaker 1: leeching out until morning showed its blue palette through the blinds.
Speaker 1: Josh rose early, padding around the loft as if nothing
Speaker 1: disturbed the balance of our life, whistling in the kit,
Speaker 1: pulling on the same faded tea, running a hand through
Speaker 1: his hair while scrolling his phone with studded nonchalance. I
Speaker 1: watched him make coffee, watched him fail to meet my eyes.
Speaker 1: I wanted the confrontation to burst out of me, but
Speaker 1: the words lodged in my throat, slick and sharp. He
Speaker 1: set a mug beside my elbow and leaned in for
Speaker 1: a kiss, but I turned away, feigning distraction in my laptop.
Speaker 1: We said little. He retreated to the studio space. The
Speaker 1: door snicked shut while I organized my evidence receipts, the
Speaker 1: photo print outs of event posts, scraps of careless laughter
Speaker 1: and accusation. They sat stacked like a deck of cards
Speaker 1: at the edge of my work space. I couldn't create,
Speaker 1: not even the ordinary ritual soothed me. Left for the
Speaker 1: gallery at nine, bags slung over his shoulder, calling a
Speaker 1: hurried see you to night behind him. I moved through
Speaker 1: our rooms, collecting what I'd need, the proof, yes, but
Speaker 1: also my backburn. Each surface glimmered with past joys. A
Speaker 1: framed first group showed poster, a smear of ocre on
Speaker 1: the window sill from the last mural, the chipped mug
Speaker 1: I'd smashed and glued together after our worst argument. I
Speaker 1: let my fingers rest on them, one by one, grounding
Speaker 1: myself so I wouldn't be swept away. By noon, I
Speaker 1: had sorted everything into piles. What I knew, what I suspected,
Speaker 1: what I could never unhear from Cam and Marsha. My
Speaker 1: hands shook as I tucked the photo back into the envelope.
Speaker 1: A sort of numbness replaced my earlier panic. But the
Speaker 1: cost of inertia was suddenly obvious. If I let this
Speaker 1: bleed out any longer, I'd become a shadow even to myself.
Speaker 1: I texted Marsha, thank you, you did the right thing.
Speaker 1: No reply, but the message delivered. I pushed down the
Speaker 1: impulse to ask her to come over to take sides.
Speaker 1: Some things had to be done without witnesses. I rehearsed
Speaker 1: the confrontation in my head as the afternoon wore on.
Speaker 1: How did you lay out some one's betrayal so plainly
Speaker 1: without sounding like a prosecutor? I made tea let it
Speaker 1: go cold. I thought of Cam's voice. We thought maybe
Speaker 1: you didn't want to see. The dull ache behind my
Speaker 1: eyes wasn't grief yet, it was preemptive mourning for the story.
Speaker 1: I cherished the version of us that could have survived
Speaker 1: anything except this. The stakes had changed, but so had I.
Speaker 1: Protecting Josh, protecting the marriage had been my default for
Speaker 1: too long. I was done being the last to know,
Speaker 1: the last to act. Around four, I received a group
Speaker 1: text from Jess dropping by the studio later, if you
Speaker 1: want to debrief after last night. The social ground was shifting.
Speaker 1: News would spread. I typed out a noncommittal reply, then
Speaker 1: powered down my phone. The rest of the world could wait.
Speaker 1: I spent those hours tracing our old habits, drawing then
Speaker 1: crossing out lines before any shape appeared, opening the fridge
Speaker 1: and shutting it again. When I finally heard Josh's key
Speaker 1: in the door. The relief was chemical. My heart hammered,
Speaker 1: but my hands stilled. He came in, humming some half remembered,
Speaker 1: indeed tune, setting down his bag and tossing his cap
Speaker 1: on to the shelf. He called out, Hey, did you
Speaker 1: see that mural proposal email we got invited? Both of
Speaker 1: us think we should. I stepped into the hallway. I'd
Speaker 1: laid the evidence out on the dining table, careful and methodical,
Speaker 1: anchoring myself in the facts so I wouldn't be gas
Speaker 1: lit into doubting what I'd lived through. He saw the stack, faltered,
Speaker 1: face flickering through confusion, wariness, and then a practiced calm.
Speaker 1: What's this? I motioned him toward the table. Sit down, Josh.
Speaker 1: My voice felt steadier than I expected. He sat, arms folded,
Speaker 1: gaze searching mind for how hard a landing he'd need
Speaker 1: to prepare for. I set out the receipts, first bars, hotel,
Speaker 1: boutique dinners, then screenshots of Instagram posts, the card with
Speaker 1: Mer's name, the printed photo from the cabin. My hands
Speaker 1: didn't shake. I had a script, but the lines wrote themselves.
Speaker 1: You always said you wanted honesty, so do I I
Speaker 1: began here it is. I want you to tell me
Speaker 1: the truth, all of it. He looked away, blowing out
Speaker 1: a slow breath. What are you accusing me of working
Speaker 1: too much? You know how this scene is. Every one
Speaker 1: s in each other's pockets all the time. I kept
Speaker 1: my voice low, even I'm not stupid, Josh. I know
Speaker 1: about you and Mia. I know what's been happening, the events,
Speaker 1: the workshops that didn't exist, the late night drinks, the
Speaker 1: night at the hotel, the week end at the cabin.
Speaker 1: I tapped the photo. Let it settle between us. It's
Speaker 1: not just about art. Stop pretending it is. He recoiled,
Speaker 1: as if slapped the mask slipping Jesus, Elina, this isn't fair.
Speaker 1: You've no idea what it's like. Feeling scrutinized all the time,
Speaker 1: she needed help. I gave her guidance because nobody else would.
Speaker 1: I softened, narrowing my focus. You lied not just to me,
Speaker 1: but to every one. You let me defend you, let
Speaker 1: me be humiliated in front of our friends while you
Speaker 1: curated this lie. Why he leaned back, color draining from
Speaker 1: his face. It wasn't supposed to be anything at first,
Speaker 1: she was lost, talented but scared. I recognized that you
Speaker 1: did too once, But lately you've just been He searched
Speaker 1: for a word, settled on distant, preoccupied. I shook my head,
Speaker 1: caught off guard by his deflection. Preoccupied. I've bent myself
Speaker 1: in half to support your projects. You said you needed space.
Speaker 1: I gave it. Now you're blaming me because you needed
Speaker 1: someone to make you feel special. His voice cracked, frustration,
Speaker 1: pitching upward. You don't get it. Every time you land
Speaker 1: a big client or your work starts trending, I feel
Speaker 1: like an accessory in my own life. It gets lonely.
Speaker 1: Being the afterthought Lena with Mia, I started to feel
Speaker 1: I don't know important again, needed. I stopped feeling like
Speaker 1: I was running to keep up with you. The words
Speaker 1: hit with a muted violence. I'd expected denials, maybe even anger,
Speaker 1: but this vulnerability, this warped rational was worse. So all
Speaker 1: this sneaking, lying, stringing me along, it was just about
Speaker 1: your ego. My words felt blunt, stripped of ornament. He
Speaker 1: hunched forward, head in hands. No, it's not just that.
Speaker 1: There was pressure too, the gallery, the sponsors, my own
Speaker 1: sense that I can't fail again If I don't have
Speaker 1: a breakthrough. It's all for nothing. Don't insult me, I said,
Speaker 1: voice suddenly sharp. I've worked through every creative drought, every
Speaker 1: insecure patch. You never gave up on me. You used
Speaker 1: what we built and you let her move in on it.
Speaker 1: You did fail, Josh, but not as an artist. He
Speaker 1: wiped his eyes, breathing hard. I never meant to hurt you. God,
Speaker 1: I never planned for any of this, But mere, she
Speaker 1: reminded me what's possible, what it feels like to be discovered.
Speaker 1: You stopped looking at me that way, Lena. You only
Speaker 1: saw the floors anger burned behind my sternum. But there
Speaker 1: was grief too, a low, keening knowledge that he'd recast
Speaker 1: me as adversary, not ally. You wanted to be the
Speaker 1: star of your own story, but you didn't have the
Speaker 1: guts to leave, so you made us both small. Did
Speaker 1: Cam know, Jess, how long have our friends watched you
Speaker 1: perform for her? While I stood in the crowd. He
Speaker 1: started to protest, stopped. They knew some or guessed, but
Speaker 1: nobody wanted to interfere. Cam tried to warm me to stop.
Speaker 1: I didn't listen. I let the silence bite in it.
Speaker 1: I saw the full shape of our undoing, a betrayal
Speaker 1: so ordinary it almost became background noise, amplified only because
Speaker 1: trust once ran so deep. So what now, I asked,
Speaker 1: voice cracking only a little. Do you want to be
Speaker 1: with her? Or was burning everything down the point? He
Speaker 1: shook his head, wild with regret. No, I don't know
Speaker 1: what I want. I only know I ruined it. And
Speaker 1: there the confrontation collapsed in on itself. There was no
Speaker 1: path back, no creative partnership to salvage, only ashes and
Speaker 1: awkward honesty. He moved to touch my hand, but I recoiled.
Speaker 1: I'm done, Josh, I can't compete in a game I
Speaker 1: didn't agree to play. He stayed slumped at the table,
Speaker 1: tears threading through his fingers. I gathered my things, phone,
Speaker 1: note book, the key to my sister's apartment. My suit
Speaker 1: case was already half packed from some part of myself
Speaker 1: that had seen this ending coming. The air in the
Speaker 1: loft shifted old ambitions, sloughing away our life as we'd
Speaker 1: constructed it. Partnership, creativity, daily ritual had been dismantled, one
Speaker 1: secret at a time. There was not even the comfort
Speaker 1: of mutual anger, just the jagged necessary end. He tried
Speaker 1: to apologize again, mumbled some pained assurances that he'd never
Speaker 1: intended to hurt me, that I still mattered, that he'd
Speaker 1: fix things if I'd let him. But every word felt
Speaker 1: like static vibrations from another unrecognizable life. I didn't shout,
Speaker 1: I didn't cry. Not Then I forced myself upright, moving
Speaker 1: on stiff legs, gathering the last few essentials from the
Speaker 1: bathroom and studio. The buzz of our shared work, a
Speaker 1: dozen unfinished canvases, crates of paint, are, twin sketch books
Speaker 1: rose and fell like static, then faded entirely. I texted Cam,
Speaker 1: leaving to night, thanks for the truth, late as it came,
Speaker 1: I don't want any more secrets from the group. Please.
Speaker 1: My finger hovered than pressed send, letting that demand hang
Speaker 1: in the digitized air. Josh didn't follow. As I closed
Speaker 1: the suit case, he sat in the same chair, the
Speaker 1: living room growing dim without anyone bothering to flick on
Speaker 1: a lamp. My hands were gentle with the door, careful
Speaker 1: not to let it slip. The hall outside smelled of
Speaker 1: dust and old ambition, and I tried, for a moment
Speaker 1: to remember how it felt to be someone who believed
Speaker 1: My phone buzzed with messages Cam my sister. I answered
Speaker 1: only one. On my way down the block, I flagged
Speaker 1: a cab giving my sisters a dress. Without looking back.
Speaker 1: In the reflection, city lights bristled on the windows, I
Speaker 1: noticed almost absently that my hands had stopped shaking. The
Speaker 1: ride over was silent, except for a single EMIL from
Speaker 1: a mutual client, pinging with the innocuous subject line scheduling update.
Speaker 1: I typed a brief reply, taking some time away from collabs,
Speaker 1: We'll circle back soon, and hit send, drawing a line
Speaker 1: under another part of my life. At my sister s
Speaker 1: she pressed a mug of herbal tea into my hands,
Speaker 1: no questions, just a gentle squeeze on my shoulder. We
Speaker 1: watched a dumb reality show as I sat curled on
Speaker 1: the couch, numb and g grateful for the way the
Speaker 1: world shrank to manageable size. That night, as word filtered
Speaker 1: through the group, the dynamics shifted. A string of quiet
Speaker 1: social unfollowings trickled in people picking sides, retreating, or simply
Speaker 1: refusing to involve themselves. In the aftermath, Cam texted back,
Speaker 1: long and apologetic, saying he'd talk to the rest. No
Speaker 1: more hiding, he promised. I read it, then muted the thread.
Speaker 1: I let the city hush around me. Small practicalities held
Speaker 1: me up, arranging a spare toothbrush, a borrowed set of pajamas,
Speaker 1: texts exchanged with clients to postpone meetings. The loft was
Speaker 1: lost to me, maybe not forever, but for now. I
Speaker 1: pictured Josh at his desk, surrounded by reminders of our
Speaker 1: shared process, unable to make a single mark. Morning crept up,
Speaker 1: pale and tentative. I didn't sleep much, but somehow, curled
Speaker 1: on that unfamiliar couch, I felt lighter. The urge to
Speaker 1: lash out, to demand and further confessions or explanations was gone.
Speaker 1: I done the thing I feared most, uncovered the truth,
Speaker 1: and then survived it. I woke before my sister, drawn
Speaker 1: to the sliding balcony door by the first flush of sunrise.
Speaker 1: I wrapped myself in a borrowed hoodie, drawing it tight
Speaker 1: around me, and stepped outside, the air roar on my cheeks.
Speaker 1: The city below felt different, now, unfamiliar and ripe with possibility.
Speaker 1: With trembling fingers, I opened my sketch book to a
Speaker 1: blank page. I let the pencil move, not worrying about
Speaker 1: composition or color, only letting my hand remember what it
Speaker 1: was like to create without permission, without waiting for approval
Speaker 1: from any one else. For the first time in weeks,
Speaker 1: the lines flowed. I closed the sketch book and leaned
Speaker 1: against the railing chest, filling with something close to calm.
Speaker 1: There were parts of this story I could never control,
Speaker 1: but there was a way forward, small and quiet, sketched
Speaker 1: out one line at a time, the lines on my
Speaker 1: page darkened and softened, the skyline bleeding out into shapes
Speaker 1: I didn't need to define. I told myself to just move,
Speaker 1: one stroke at a time, no plan, trusting only the
Speaker 1: weight in my hand. The pencil felt alien and intimate
Speaker 1: all at once, like a guest that used to have
Speaker 1: a key. The balcony was cold, city traffic humming beneath
Speaker 1: the hush of sunrise, muted by birds that insisted on
Speaker 1: declaring hope for no reason at all. I found myself
Speaker 1: sketching windows, roof tops, tiny rectangles for doors, an architectural
Speaker 1: self portrait that didn't ask permission, didn't wait to be introduced,
Speaker 1: didn't try to win a place in any one's gallery.
Speaker 1: My sister drifted out, rubbing her eyes, pulling her hair
Speaker 1: into a messy knot. She leaned on the frame and
Speaker 1: just looked at me. Her presence a sort of permission.
Speaker 1: I didn't know i'd needed. You're drawing, she said, softly,
Speaker 1: more observation than surprise. Couldn't sleep. She held out a
Speaker 1: cup weak coffee in a chipped mug. You want to
Speaker 1: talk or not now, I said, almost apologetic. I might later.
Speaker 1: She nodded and padded back inside, leaving the door open
Speaker 1: behind her. The heat from the apartment pressed against the
Speaker 1: morning chill, a strange balance. I kept drawing. Before long,
Speaker 1: the loft was sending messages after me, like a dog
Speaker 1: scratching at the back door. My phone, which I'd resolutely
Speaker 1: not checked all night, chirped with a handful of texts.
Speaker 1: One from Cam, a few from clients, a string from Josh.
Speaker 1: I turned them face down atop the slab of my
Speaker 1: sketch book. I didn't read any of them. There would
Speaker 1: be time for that, for logistics, for cleaning up the
Speaker 1: wreckage and deciding what came next. But consequences aren't made
Speaker 1: of big gestures alone. They arrive in the slow drip
Speaker 1: of lost routine. By mid morning, a friend from the
Speaker 1: art crowd called THEO always nervous, voice high and falsely bright. Hey,
Speaker 1: just checking in. Wanted you to know, AHM, we love you. Okay,
Speaker 1: if you want to talk, whatever you need. I thanked
Speaker 1: him my words papery and polite, and let him hang
Speaker 1: up first. The boundaries of our circle had shifted, and
Speaker 1: it would never be the same. Social media flared quietly
Speaker 1: in the background. I watched as notifications snowballed and follows
Speaker 1: from people who once championed our collaborations. A gallery owner
Speaker 1: left a neutral thinking of you both, let me know
Speaker 1: what you need under one of my old posts. I
Speaker 1: disabled comments on anything with us together. The art world
Speaker 1: can be lionhearted about ambition and mouse small when it
Speaker 1: comes to discomfort. Now that discomfort had a name, word
Speaker 1: had gotten out. No matter where I went, there was
Speaker 1: no hiding the outline of what had happened. Later that day,
Speaker 1: my inbox chimed with a message from a partner and
Speaker 1: one of our joint contracts, a gentle but unmistakable suggestion
Speaker 1: that the upcoming mural commission in June might be rescheduled
Speaker 1: for creative growth reasons. I wrote back quickly that my
Speaker 1: schedule was uncertain, but to keep me in the loop
Speaker 1: as they saw fit, I signed Elena, not Elena and Josh.
Speaker 1: That simple act breaking the linking, and was oddly more
Speaker 1: final than any argument or slammed door. I texted Kam,
Speaker 1: not asking for gossip this time, but for the paint
Speaker 1: said of mine he borrowed practicalities, he replied, promptly, promising
Speaker 1: to drop it by telling me to take care. I
Speaker 1: believed him, suddenly and simply, in a way I hadn't
Speaker 1: for months. Later, I sat with my sister at her
Speaker 1: tiny breakfast table. She ran point on groceries and emails,
Speaker 1: quietly steering away anyone who tried to reach me. In
Speaker 1: that hush, domestic absurd grounding consequences swept in. Josh's absence
Speaker 1: was an ache, but so was the loss of the
Speaker 1: entire scaffolding of our life together, the rhythm of creative critique,
Speaker 1: the casual multiplication of opportunities, even the storms of mutual
Speaker 1: jealousy that meant we were still close enough to war wound.
Speaker 1: Now those storms had passed, but their debris was everywhere. Midday,
Speaker 1: there was a knock cam stood in the doorway sheepish,
Speaker 1: carrying my battered paint kit and a small brown bag.
Speaker 1: Didn't want to just leave it with the doorman. And Ah,
Speaker 1: I brought those weird chewy match of cookies you like.
Speaker 1: He held them out like a peace offering. I took both,
Speaker 1: folding my arms around the box, bracing for discomfort. He
Speaker 1: hovered anxious, How are you holding up? I'm still here,
Speaker 1: I managed. That's about it. The group are people, okay?
Speaker 1: Cam nodded, then shrugged. Nobody knows what to do, honestly.
Speaker 1: Some people are pissed at Josh. Some just don't want waves.
Speaker 1: I think a few are scared. The whole thing breaks
Speaker 1: up our little scene, but everyone saw it. We all did.
Speaker 1: Nobody did enough. I didn't do enough. I'm really sorry, Lena.
Speaker 1: His voice thrummed with gilt, the old affections shining through.
Speaker 1: I let out a breath. I didn't realize i'd held
Speaker 1: Thanks for telling me it was overdue. Don't disappear, o kay,
Speaker 1: he promised, and for a moment, the past version of
Speaker 1: our group felt almost within reach. Blurred by morning, but
Speaker 1: not erased. Cam left quickly squeezing my shoulder, not lingering, merciful,
Speaker 1: aware the river of practical changes became a torrent. I
Speaker 1: began drafting emails to solo clients, declining new meetings for
Speaker 1: personal reasons. I adjusted our joint website to list myself
Speaker 1: as unavailable for collaborative projects till further notice. I scrolled
Speaker 1: through old posts, deleting stories that felt like relics of
Speaker 1: a universe I no longer lived in. Each step cut
Speaker 1: a thread, necessary, mechanical, but irreversible. That evening, as dusk
Speaker 1: rolled in, I forced myself to review the messages Josh
Speaker 1: had sent. There were four, escalating from tentative are you okay,
Speaker 1: please call when you're ready, to frantic I can explain
Speaker 1: more if you'll talk to me. Please, Lena, don't do this.
Speaker 1: We can fix it, and then to resignation. I'm so
Speaker 1: so sorry. I don't know how to say anything that matters.
Speaker 1: Just tell me you're safe. I typed a single reply,
Speaker 1: I'm safe. I need you to respect my space. I
Speaker 1: won't be coming back to the loft for the time being.
Speaker 1: Please don't contact my sister. I read it twice, the
Speaker 1: urge to soften the blow still present, but I hit
Speaker 1: s end before I could second guess myself. I could
Speaker 1: imagine him alone in the half lit rooms of the loft,
Speaker 1: scrolling through old work, the projects that no longer meant much.
Speaker 1: A king on an island he'd chosen alone. Part of
Speaker 1: me pitied him, and part of me hated that pity.
Speaker 1: If I let it in, I might be tempted to
Speaker 1: return not to him, but to the memory of our us,
Speaker 1: the version of partnership I once believed in. My sister
Speaker 1: floated in and out, at times, silent, at times humming
Speaker 1: some old pop song that made me smile for no reason.
Speaker 1: She bought wine, she made dinner. She let me decide
Speaker 1: between messy silence and comfort TV without judgment or prying.
Speaker 1: I realized this, too, was a kind of loyalty, the low,
Speaker 1: patient drumbeat of someone who expects nothing but honesty in return.
Speaker 1: The immediate fallout was a thicket of logistics, untangling, professional commitments,
Speaker 1: canceling brunches, fending off the occasional tentative message from a
Speaker 1: friend who hoped, maybe that this would just blow over.
Speaker 1: It wouldn't. The art world thrived on reinvention. Maybe I
Speaker 1: could too. That night, I stood at the window in
Speaker 1: my borrowed bedroom, staring at the skeletal construction cranes that
Speaker 1: dotted the skyline. I pressed my forehead to the glass,
Speaker 1: letting the city's indifference restore some of my own. If
Speaker 1: there was solace, it wasn't enclosure, but in the slow
Speaker 1: return of appetite, for sleep, for drawing, even for simple
Speaker 1: company that didn't require performance. Early the next morning, before
Speaker 1: bird song, before anyone had TEKETX, did me. I packed
Speaker 1: my sketch book, threw on boots and a too large hoodie,
Speaker 1: and left my sister a note back in a couple hours.
Speaker 1: I walked steadily toward the river, the city's bones unspooling
Speaker 1: beneath my feet, each traffic light a check puant, every
Speaker 1: face of brief reminder that anonymity can be medicine. The
Speaker 1: riverside park was empty but for a jogger and a
Speaker 1: couple feeding pigeons. I found a bench, opened my sketch
Speaker 1: book to a blank page, and began drawing. Not the skyline,
Speaker 1: not our old loft, not even something mournful and confessional. Instead,
Speaker 1: I found myself conjuring colors. I missed the turquoise of
Speaker 1: cams drink, the violent orange of gallery lights, the lavender
Speaker 1: of a new dawn behind unfamiliar windows, a study in transformation,
Speaker 1: not victory, not defeat, just the fact of change and
Speaker 1: the permanence of movement. As I finished, I closed my
Speaker 1: sketch book and looked up the sunlight catching on the
Speaker 1: river in streaks. The page fluttered in the slow current
Speaker 1: of morning air. In that silence, for the first time
Speaker 1: since the unraveling began, I felt the beginning of freedom,
Speaker 1: something small and undeniable, filling the space where only longing
Speaker 1: had lived. I stood, exhaled and let myself imagine a
Speaker 1: future not dictated by partnership or betrayal, or the endless
Speaker 1: need to prove my worth. I would create, not to
Speaker 1: steady some one else's ambition or keep pace with a
Speaker 1: world that asked me to shrink, but simply because it
Speaker 1: was mine to claim. Leaving the river behind, I walked
Speaker 1: back through streets, alive, with city sounds carrying the weight
Speaker 1: a little differently. At the apartment, my sister met me
Speaker 1: at the door, took one look at my face and nodded.
Speaker 1: No questions asked. I set my sketch book on the table.
Speaker 1: The city pulsed beyond the glass, bright and impossible and open.
Speaker 1: I was here I was whole or something like it.
Speaker 1: I was unfinished, and for now that was enough HM.