Speaker 1: I was dicing onions for dinner, standing alone in the clean,
Speaker 1: humming kitchen, the kind of Thursday that used to be ours.
Speaker 1: Kate wouldn't be home for a while. I'd already texted
Speaker 1: to see when she'd get back, partly out of habit,
Speaker 1: partly out of the dull hope that to night we
Speaker 1: might reclaim some flicker of our old routine. She replied
Speaker 1: at seven twenty eight, running club went long, grabbing a
Speaker 1: quick drink with the group. Don't wait up. The message
Speaker 1: was brisk, not cold, exactly, but there was a looseness
Speaker 1: to it that made me pause. Her language a little
Speaker 1: off from the Kate who usually checked in. I tried
Speaker 1: not to let it bother me. She said late meetings,
Speaker 1: before last minute dinners with colleagues. Running club was new,
Speaker 1: but it wasn't like her to be vague about her
Speaker 1: evening plans. I told myself there was no threat in
Speaker 1: this change. She'd wanted something for herself, so what was
Speaker 1: the harm. I rinsed the knife, scrolled through the music
Speaker 1: on my phone, tried to find something that felt right.
Speaker 1: I ended up on one of the older playlists, the
Speaker 1: ones we'd made years ago. When dinner at home still
Speaker 1: meant candles and two glasses, banter volleying across the counter. Lately,
Speaker 1: more nights passed by like this, Me in the kitchen,
Speaker 1: Kate somewhere else, both of us orbiting the life we'd built,
Speaker 1: missing each other by inches. The apartment was too quiet.
Speaker 1: I flicked through Netflix, but nothing stuck. I kept catching
Speaker 1: myself listening for the elevator doors, then remembering Kate wouldn't
Speaker 1: be home for hours, if at all. There were times,
Speaker 1: not so long ago, when Thursday nights were sacred, our night,
Speaker 1: no work, no plans, just us. I remembered the curve
Speaker 1: of her laugh when the wine loosened her, the way
Speaker 1: she'd crow at my terrible attempts at past her. A
Speaker 1: half familiar pain tightened in my chest, more a question
Speaker 1: than an ache. What changed? When exactly had I started
Speaker 1: waiting for her instead of us waiting for each other?
Speaker 1: The evening crawled. My phone buzzed again, a notification from Sam,
Speaker 1: an old friend from my undergrad days, mostly a mean dropper.
Speaker 1: I almost swiped it away, but then noticed he tagged
Speaker 1: me in a photo on Instagram. Curiosity pulled me in.
Speaker 1: I opened the story and instantly wished I hadn't a
Speaker 1: dingy bar, the kind with Edison bulbs above, battered tables
Speaker 1: in the background. Kate laughing, head tipped back, eyes alive,
Speaker 1: not for Sam, though seated close beside her, a guy
Speaker 1: I didn't recognize. He was leaning in one hand, resting
Speaker 1: on her arm, casual but certainly not platonic. Kate looked vibrant,
Speaker 1: present in a way I hadn't seen from her in months.
Speaker 1: For a moment, I just stared. The image sharpened my
Speaker 1: attention in a way her text hadn't. My thumb hovered
Speaker 1: over the photo, battling a prickling sensation behind my ribs.
Speaker 1: Jealousy maybe, but also something more. Was it just normal,
Speaker 1: friendly banter. Maybe he was part of the running club,
Speaker 1: a neighbor, harmless. But the connection, the easy touch, the
Speaker 1: comfort with which she laughed, felt pointed. I closed my phone,
Speaker 1: sat at the counter. I told myself jealousy was ridiculous,
Speaker 1: that there had to be an explanation that I trusted her. Still,
Speaker 1: doubt flickered in the back of my mind, as if
Speaker 1: my brain knew something my heart didn't. I poured a
Speaker 1: glass of wine, staring at the band aid glow of
Speaker 1: the city outside wondering when small aches start to mean
Speaker 1: something larger. I tried to remember what I knew, that
Speaker 1: Kate loved me, that we'd weathered years of tension and
Speaker 1: still made it work. But in the silence replaying that photo,
Speaker 1: her smile, the hand on her arm, I felt suddenly
Speaker 1: far away from the woman I thought I knew. Was
Speaker 1: I being silly? Was this just a flash of pointless jealousy,
Speaker 1: or had something in our world really shifted? When people
Speaker 1: ask how you know things are changing, they usually expect
Speaker 1: a story about a fight or a betrayal torn open.
Speaker 1: But sometimes it's just one evening standing in a kitchen somewhere,
Speaker 1: haunted by the sound of your own thoughts, and a
Speaker 1: picture you wish you hadn't seen. Later that night, as
Speaker 1: I was rinsing my glass and darkening the apartment, I
Speaker 1: tried to convince myself it meant nothing. Kate would come back,
Speaker 1: crawl beside me in bed, murmur attired apology for getting
Speaker 1: home so late. I outlined the rational arguments in my head.
Speaker 1: She needed this group activity, she deserved to have friends. Still,
Speaker 1: sleep came fitful, scattered by the memory of her laugh,
Speaker 1: the stranger's hand, the new space between us. I met
Speaker 1: Kate eight years ago, late September at a block long
Speaker 1: urban art installation in the heart of the city, one
Speaker 1: of those pop up things with neon tubes snaking across
Speaker 1: the pavement and a pop up bar slinging over priced cocktails.
Speaker 1: She was there with friends from grad school. I was
Speaker 1: fresh off a summer architecture project, feeling eager and self
Speaker 1: conscious in equal measure. The memory floats bright and awkward,
Speaker 1: the way we sized e each other up, her hair
Speaker 1: falling into her eyes as she rearranged the paper lantern
Speaker 1: display my lost helplessness over who was performing and who
Speaker 1: was just enjoying themselves. Our first conversation was a volley
Speaker 1: of sarcasm and knowing glances. Even now I see flashes
Speaker 1: of that night in how we bicker, how our jokes
Speaker 1: slide into intimacy. She challenged me to a race across
Speaker 1: the light field, then let me win, then loudly accused
Speaker 1: me of cheating. I bought her a drink, she bought
Speaker 1: the second. By midnight, we were wandering along the river,
Speaker 1: talking about cities. We wanted to see what we wanted
Speaker 1: from life, how afraid we both were of being boring
Speaker 1: It wasn't dramatic, no instant's sweep. It was sharper than that,
Speaker 1: an awareness that got into my blood and stayed there.
Speaker 1: Kate was ambitious, marketing by trade, always climbing, impulsive, competitive,
Speaker 1: but attentive. She noticed details, what colors made rooms gentle,
Speaker 1: how I stammered when nervous, my taste in books. The
Speaker 1: early months, late nights out, impromptu road trips just to
Speaker 1: chase the sunrise, her friends merging with mine for dinner
Speaker 1: parties and trivia nights. We built a ritual of coming home,
Speaker 1: no matter how late. We were, recapping our days over
Speaker 1: cheap wine and whatever leftovers remained, shared playlists, inside jokes,
Speaker 1: the kind you can't explain if asked. I anchored myself
Speaker 1: to those rituals, the feeling that no matter what the
Speaker 1: world threw at us, we'd circle back to each other.
Speaker 1: Even as work got busier, we carved out time. Kate's
Speaker 1: company was booming, My projects kept me on sight until
Speaker 1: all hours, but we fought hard to preserve our nightly routine.
Speaker 1: Some nights it was little more than a glass of
Speaker 1: wine and shared silence. Others we picked apart our bosses, quirks,
Speaker 1: celebrated or survived whatever the day had thrown us. She
Speaker 1: helped me through the hardest patch of my life, my
Speaker 1: mother's emergency surgery three years ago. All the way across
Speaker 1: the state, Kate took leave from work, shuttled me to
Speaker 1: the hostelepit, sat up with us through the grim hours.
Speaker 1: When the worst passed. She was the one who made
Speaker 1: us all laugh. Had survived setbacks too. The year my
Speaker 1: firm lost a major contract. When my confidence buckled, Kate's
Speaker 1: faith in me never did. Even if she got frustrated
Speaker 1: at my gloom, I cheered her through disappointments, most recently,
Speaker 1: when a long expected promotion at her agency evaporated, given
Speaker 1: to guy whose only distinction seemed to be his fantasy
Speaker 1: baseball skills. She raged for a week straight, plotting not
Speaker 1: so idly his destruction, then dusted herself off and started
Speaker 1: mapping the next campaign. Kate has always been loyal, almost militantly,
Speaker 1: so her friendships are hand picked. She jokes about being
Speaker 1: an only child who needed to build her own chosen family.
Speaker 1: She can be headstrong, throws herself into projects until her
Speaker 1: world narrows, sometimes at the expense of time. For us. Still,
Speaker 1: whenever we felt ourselves slipping into parallel lives, and god,
Speaker 1: it's so easy, easy in your thirties, with careers and
Speaker 1: obligations pressing in from every side. It was Kate, more
Speaker 1: often than me, who drag us back to the same page.
Speaker 1: Our circle is mostly friends we've gathered through work, couples,
Speaker 1: some single neighbors, but none especially close. Until about six
Speaker 1: months ago, we weren't the joiners. Running was always Kate's thing,
Speaker 1: usually solo, usually after work, to clear her head. She
Speaker 1: needed the endorphin hit more than I did. When she
Speaker 1: first mentioned the new neighborhood running club, I was half
Speaker 1: glad she needed an outlet that wasn't her cutthroat job.
Speaker 1: We'd been talking at her urging about actively investing in
Speaker 1: our social life. I didn't complain. If anything, I felt
Speaker 1: a little relief, knowing she had a way to decompress
Speaker 1: the cracks, if I can call them, that started showing
Speaker 1: after that botch promotion. Kate became more restless, distracted. I
Speaker 1: had my own crises, tight deadlines, a new client threatening
Speaker 1: to walk at the last minute. Maybe that's why I
Speaker 1: missed the early warning signs, the slow dilution of our
Speaker 1: private world. Looking back, we were still strong, but strong
Speaker 1: doesn't mean immune. We were both hungry for something, a
Speaker 1: break from the grind, a shot of excitement, even if
Speaker 1: we didn't say it out loud. Still, if you told
Speaker 1: me then that a stranger's hand on her arm in
Speaker 1: a bar would feel like the ground shifting under my feet,
Speaker 1: I would have shrugged it off. By Friday morning, I
Speaker 1: was still thinking about that photo from Sam. I didn't
Speaker 1: want to be that husband, the one grilling his wife
Speaker 1: for every detail, so I tried to keep it light
Speaker 1: over breakfast, slicing strawberries into our oatmeal, setting her mug
Speaker 1: down just so. How late did you guys go last night?
Speaker 1: I asked, stirring my coffee, careful to keep my voice neutral.
Speaker 1: Kate was radiant in her run club hoodie, cheeks still
Speaker 1: pink from her early jog. We ended up at Wyatt's
Speaker 1: after the run. I swear half the group got trapped
Speaker 1: in an argument about whether you should stretch before or after.
Speaker 1: She grinned. Coach Mel was accused of running a stretched dictatorship.
Speaker 1: I tried to place all the faces from Sam's photo.
Speaker 1: Anyone new in the club. She shrugged too breezy, Yeah,
Speaker 1: a few, there's Chris, you'd like him used to work
Speaker 1: in outdoor wreck good stories. There was a flash of
Speaker 1: something deflection or simple happiness. I couldn't tell. Then you
Speaker 1: should catch up with the playlist the group made. Someone
Speaker 1: put a Metallica remix on it. I about died. The
Speaker 1: mention of Chris thudded in my gut, but I just
Speaker 1: nodded and smiled. Doesn't sound like your usual vibe, Kate laughed,
Speaker 1: you'd be surprised. You should try surprising yourself sometime. She
Speaker 1: nudged my foot under the table. Her phone buzzed. She glanced,
Speaker 1: and I caught the name Chris before she angled the
Speaker 1: screen away and dropped the phone into her bag. I
Speaker 1: raised an eyebrow, just a notch. She caught it, grinned,
Speaker 1: running group, always organizing fiercely. Something in her tone felt rehearsed.
Speaker 1: I decided not to push. Maybe it was me not trusting.
Speaker 1: Maybe I was reading shadows that weren't there. Was she
Speaker 1: brushing me off, or just energized by this new chapter.
Speaker 1: We parted ways. Kate to her conference, calls me to
Speaker 1: drafting revisions, and I told myself to get over it.
Speaker 1: Partners are allowed private circles still by lunch, I was
Speaker 1: replaying small moments from the morning, the new phrases she'd used,
Speaker 1: the playlist, the subtle, almost imperceptible way she handled her phone.
Speaker 1: After work, I found myself checking the running club's group
Speaker 1: feed online, a public thread where members posted photos and
Speaker 1: route maps. Kate wasn't in the most recent batch, but
Speaker 1: a Chris, same last initial as the phone notification, had
Speaker 1: posted a running photo and playlist updates. I caught myself
Speaker 1: spinning in circles. I tried to rationalize she was just
Speaker 1: making friends, loosening up. Nothing in her behavior was overtly wrong,
Speaker 1: but our routines were shifting in ways I couldn't quite map,
Speaker 1: a gradual, pressing sort of change. In the past, I
Speaker 1: would have called her during a slow afternoon just to
Speaker 1: see if she wanted to meet for coffee. Now I hesitated.
Speaker 1: It felt like she was living just a little further
Speaker 1: away from me, or maybe I was putting up the distance.
Speaker 1: That night, we went through the motions of our evening
Speaker 1: as usual, cooking, eating side by side. Kate told a
Speaker 1: story about her boss's terrible taste in fonts. She asked
Speaker 1: about my client's endless delays, but the banter was jumpier.
Speaker 1: Twice during dinner, her phone buzzed and she excused herself,
Speaker 1: claiming work. There was a mild blandness to her affection,
Speaker 1: a sort of distracted autopilot, which I tried to ignore.
Speaker 1: Am I being paranoid? Or am I picking up on
Speaker 1: something real? The first major change happened the following Thursday.
Speaker 1: I came home with takeout, expecting to decompress, but found
Speaker 1: a note running club to night, be home, late kiss.
Speaker 1: The script of the note was familiar, her lipstick mark
Speaker 1: on the margin, almost careless. But when she did get home,
Speaker 1: it was nearly midnight and I was half asleep on
Speaker 1: the couch. She crept in, breathing quietly, shoes in hand.
Speaker 1: I pretended to be asleep, though my mind was awake,
Speaker 1: tuned to the softness of her motions. Morning returned us
Speaker 1: to a shallow normal, coffee, news articles, a rapid fire
Speaker 1: download about her new favorite playlist. I searched for the
Speaker 1: warmth that anchored me, clung to the details. I knew
Speaker 1: her hands reaching for my waist as she slid past
Speaker 1: the way. Her smile curled when I made a joke
Speaker 1: about her run clubs ritual sacrifices to athletic gods. But
Speaker 1: now she dressed differently for run club nights, her old
Speaker 1: battered trainers replaced by sleek new nikes, simple t shirts
Speaker 1: swapped for form fitting tech gear, and a small but
Speaker 1: piercing detail. A new perfume, warm spicy, not the green
Speaker 1: scent she wore on easy weekends. A week later, I
Speaker 1: found a receipt on the dining table Wyatt's, again the
Speaker 1: bar from Sam's photo. The amount was higher than just
Speaker 1: a post run drink, enough, in fact, for two or
Speaker 1: more rounds of specialty cocktails. We were watching expenses with
Speaker 1: an upcoming vacation we'd planned, so it caught my attention.
Speaker 1: I mentioned it half joking in the car on the
Speaker 1: way to the store. Wyatts must be stepping up their prices.
Speaker 1: She waved it off. Yeah, but everyone splits it, so
Speaker 1: it's never much. Sometimes one person gets the whole tab
Speaker 1: and we venmo after. I wanted to believe her because
Speaker 1: it was so plausible, shared tabs uneven coverage. Still, the
Speaker 1: details kept accumulating, references to new jokes from the group,
Speaker 1: stories about roots and inside nicknames that I wasn't included
Speaker 1: in comments about songs she'd have to show me later.
Speaker 1: Sometimes I'd ask if I could tag along on a run.
Speaker 1: I like running, after all, and we'd done it together before.
Speaker 1: She always hesitated, but smiled. It's kind of my own time,
Speaker 1: you know, I need a separate space just for me.
Speaker 1: You have your project days and I have this. It
Speaker 1: was true. I had my late nights sketching or solving
Speaker 1: stubborn detail issues. But lately I've been using that time
Speaker 1: to try to reconnect, cooking, proposing dinner, even just a
Speaker 1: walk around the block. Kate, on the other hand, seemed
Speaker 1: to be spending more and more time out, always with
Speaker 1: the same cheerful, glazed over explanation. The group needed to
Speaker 1: decompress after a bad hill. We went to bodega, or
Speaker 1: we met to work on the playlist. Simple enough, and
Speaker 1: yet something always felt just beyond what she was saying.
Speaker 1: Friends started dropping stray references. Marissa from the couple two
Speaker 1: floors down mentioned she'd seen Kate and that tall guy Chris,
Speaker 1: I think, the one who talks about micro brews at
Speaker 1: the local coffee shop. They seemed deep in conversation, laughing
Speaker 1: about something she said, not implying anything, just talking. I
Speaker 1: tucked it away. I tried again to bridge us. What
Speaker 1: do you think about taking a week end just the
Speaker 1: two of us, I asked, while we cleaned the kitchen.
Speaker 1: Drive out of the city, breathe a little before peak
Speaker 1: season hits. She turned away, stacking the plates in the
Speaker 1: drying rack. I'm overloaded. Things are chaotic at work, and honestly,
Speaker 1: I just need some time to catch up, not fall
Speaker 1: further behind. Maybe next month. That night, at dinner, I
Speaker 1: noticed she barely touched her food, scrolling through her phone
Speaker 1: every few minutes between distracted bites. Her touches once so
Speaker 1: instinctive hand on my back as she passed behind me,
Speaker 1: A squeeze of my shoulder became rare, almost mechanical. Our
Speaker 1: attempts at sex became fraught, stilted. One night, she pulled away, apologized,
Speaker 1: work stress, my mind's just not here right now. Sorry.
Speaker 1: I nodded, said I understood, But inside something faltered. I'd
Speaker 1: never felt denied before, not like this. A few days later,
Speaker 1: I overheard a late night phone call. I got up
Speaker 1: for water and paused in the hall. Kate was in
Speaker 1: the spare room, her voice low but not whispering, threaded
Speaker 1: with a familiarity and softness. I heard less in our
Speaker 1: own conversations Lately. She was saying, I know it's frustrating,
Speaker 1: but what can you do? Followed by a laugh, too
Speaker 1: gentle for a colleague, too familiar for a friend. When
Speaker 1: I stepped closer, she added, I've got to go. He's
Speaker 1: probably wondering, then snapped the call shut in bed. I asked,
Speaker 1: everything okay? At work? She didn't turn, just the usual.
Speaker 1: Can we not talk about work to night? By Monday,
Speaker 1: the distance had grown. I spent more time at the office,
Speaker 1: burying myself in drawings and renderings, but the home I
Speaker 1: returned to each night felt liminal, like some one else's
Speaker 1: in between queen life. We met at the threshold, sometimes
Speaker 1: managing dinner, sometimes not. I tried to talk about us,
Speaker 1: where we were, why things felt different. She became defensive
Speaker 1: as soon as I asked, why are you hovering? Can't
Speaker 1: you see I just need a little space. Work is
Speaker 1: crushing me, and all this you watching me making everything
Speaker 1: a thing makes it harder. I bit down my response.
Speaker 1: Did my concern read as suspicion or was I genuinely
Speaker 1: crowding her? Everything I did seemed to widen the breach
Speaker 1: our rituals once our safe harbor, now felt brittle performative.
Speaker 1: Was I imagining this or was she rewriting our life
Speaker 1: around someone else? A week of this and I decided
Speaker 1: to change course, give her what she wanted, space, understanding, warmth.
Speaker 1: If I leaned in, maybe we could steer back. I
Speaker 1: prepared her favorite dinner, Piella, the dish we'd taken a
Speaker 1: cooking class for on year two, and set the table
Speaker 1: with candles. I left a small note beside her fork.
Speaker 1: You me, no group texts required. Kate arrived home late,
Speaker 1: eyes shadowed but softening at the scent from the stove.
Speaker 1: You did all this, She smiled, reel this time and
Speaker 1: kissed me. We ate slow, laughing about my interpretation of
Speaker 1: Spanish food. She thanked me for supporting her, for being
Speaker 1: patient with this rough season. I needed this, really, she said.
Speaker 1: That night, she suggested we make a date. Night happen,
Speaker 1: picked a Saturday to block off. I let myself hope again.
Speaker 1: The next few days passed, lighter, small touches returned inside,
Speaker 1: jokes crept back, her phone less guarded when left on
Speaker 1: the counter. I almost believed it was just a rough patch,
Speaker 1: that I'd built a crisis out of my own stress.
Speaker 1: A week passed. Then, on a Wednesday night, while checking
Speaker 1: my phone before bed, I saw a post from the
Speaker 1: Running Club's group feed, a new selfie a handful of
Speaker 1: club members, Kate and Chris front and center, both in
Speaker 1: running gear. The caption under Chris's ear plowed best partner
Speaker 1: out there, hash long miles run, a high song of
Speaker 1: the night, hashtags and inside jokes. I couldn't passe there
Speaker 1: unmistakable Kate's hand on Chris's shoulder, grinning at something off camera.
Speaker 1: The kicker. Kate hadn't mentioned a run that night. She
Speaker 1: d said she was working late, drowning in decks for
Speaker 1: a client would eat at the office. The pit that
Speaker 1: opened in my stomach then wasn't jealousy. It was something
Speaker 1: far rour, the sense that I'd been lied to deliberately.
Speaker 1: I closed my laptop and sat in the dark, replaying
Speaker 1: months of small changes, her laughter in the bar, the
Speaker 1: new playlist, the secrecy, the defensiveness. Was this the answer then?
Speaker 1: Or was there room for another explanation? The next morning
Speaker 1: I kept quiet, part fear, part studded patience, But inside
Speaker 1: the question turned over and over. What am I actually seeing?
Speaker 1: And what am I refusing to see. I started paying
Speaker 1: more attention, collecting small pieces of data without really intending to.
Speaker 1: On my lunch break at work, I slid through Kate's
Speaker 1: social media. We had nothing to hide between us, supposedly,
Speaker 1: but there was nothing direct. Maybe she got smarter about
Speaker 1: what she posted. Later on the shared iPad, I noticed
Speaker 1: all logs with missing entries, her side of the text
Speaker 1: chain scrubbed clean on a handful of dates. It wasn't
Speaker 1: proof by itself, but it was new. Kate cares about privacy,
Speaker 1: but she never deleted history just because I scrolled back
Speaker 1: in our joint account looking for what a clue a pattern.
Speaker 1: On the evening of that selfie with Chris, a transaction
Speaker 1: jumped out a charge at the Bodega cocktail bar higher
Speaker 1: than two drinks. Again, the explanations in my head grew thinner.
Speaker 1: At the next neighborhood event, a block party with strawberries
Speaker 1: and bad microbrews, I found Jennifer, a wiry, bright eyed
Speaker 1: woman from the running club. I'd seen her chatting with
Speaker 1: Chris and Kate at the bar in Sam's photo. We
Speaker 1: drifted into conversation about running. I tried to be casual.
Speaker 1: Kate talks about the club all the time. Seems like
Speaker 1: a great group. Jennifer stiffened a little, then softened. Yeah,
Speaker 1: it's fun, good crewe. Kate and Chris are well, they've
Speaker 1: gotten really close, but I guess that just happens long runs.
Speaker 1: Her eyes flickered, uncertain. Honestly, if you're ever curious, maybe
Speaker 1: just ask her. The evasion vibrated in me For the
Speaker 1: rest of the night. After the party, I sat in
Speaker 1: our darkened living room, our US playlist playing quietly, and
Speaker 1: remembered a night early in our relationship when Kate had
Speaker 1: confided in me about her parents divorce. How she'd known
Speaker 1: something was wrong long before anything showed on the surface.
Speaker 1: It's in the little things, She'd said, what they don't
Speaker 1: want you to notice. I wondered if she was echoing
Speaker 1: that truth now in her own secret. Later that week,
Speaker 1: when Kate left her lap top opened beside the bed,
Speaker 1: I glanced at her search history, mostly innocuous emil work,
Speaker 1: nonsense running gear. But a text thread sink from Chris
Speaker 1: caught my eye. Something she must have forgotten to log
Speaker 1: out of. One line glared up at me. Can't stop
Speaker 1: thinking about last night. I snapped the laptop shut, my
Speaker 1: ears ringing, I checked the calendar. The previous night, Kate
Speaker 1: had come home late, claiming a late night project rap
Speaker 1: with a client. Around the same time as the message,
Speaker 1: a charge popped up on our joint account a boutique
Speaker 1: hotel downtown. Midweek, she d said she was working late.
Speaker 1: Days blurred together. The longing to confront her collided over
Speaker 1: and over with the dread of what she might say.
Speaker 1: I promised myself not to ambush her, to collect facts,
Speaker 1: to give her a chance to explain. But as more
Speaker 1: pieces slipped into place, missing receipts, slivers of conversations caught
Speaker 1: in passing every rational defense I'd built, began to reshape
Speaker 1: itself into something I didn't want to claim. I called Sam.
Speaker 1: My voice sounded off even to me. You've seen Kate
Speaker 1: at Wyatt's right with the Run club, Sure, Sam said, slow,
Speaker 1: Chris is always there. They stay afterwards. Sometimes I think
Speaker 1: they seem ye know, close. Is everything cool? Yeah? I lied,
Speaker 1: wishing I could explain what cool even meant. That night,
Speaker 1: I watched Kate brush her teeth, face, bare, eyes, tired.
Speaker 1: I wanted to reach out brush her hair from her face,
Speaker 1: but I couldn't bridge the gap. The text from Chris
Speaker 1: haunted me, as did the memory of Kate's laugh. These
Speaker 1: two versions of her distant from me. Weeks of accumulating evidence,
Speaker 1: and still I hadn't said anything straight out. I waited
Speaker 1: for the perfect moment, but I started to realize there
Speaker 1: might never be one. I had only these unsteady facts
Speaker 1: and the slow sinking feeling that the foundation of our
Speaker 1: life was shifting beneath my feet. Now, when she came
Speaker 1: home late, I no longer bothered to ask. When she
Speaker 1: scrolled through her phone, I watched for not just the names,
Speaker 1: but the rhythms of her secrets. When she touched me
Speaker 1: even lightly, I wondered if she thought of some one else.
Speaker 1: Every explanation she offered seemed thinner, every apology more practiced.
Speaker 1: There were moments, brief and bitter, when I almost wished
Speaker 1: she'd tell me it was over. Easier, I thought, to
Speaker 1: hear a wound split open than endure this steady, anxious bleeding.
Speaker 1: Still I remembered us, all those years of gritty, ordinary love,
Speaker 1: late nights, laughing on the couch or just breathing in
Speaker 1: step on some forgotten trail. I remembered her promise that
Speaker 1: we'd never let our lives harden into something predictable and
Speaker 1: safe and boring. I wondered now if for her something
Speaker 1: new had become more than a slogan. No one tells
Speaker 1: you how much betrayal can hide behind perfect routines. It's
Speaker 1: in the silence, in the jokes you're not a part of,
Speaker 1: in the new music you didn't choose. You hope. It's
Speaker 1: nothing you try to trust. But eventually, when all that's
Speaker 1: left our answers you're afraid to ask, you begin to
Speaker 1: chase the truth, even when you know it will break you.
Speaker 1: And still I didn't know everything, not yet. Saturday morning,
Speaker 1: the sun was prying its way through our bedroom curtains.
Speaker 1: When I woke up. Kate was already up her side
Speaker 1: of the bed, flattened, the note of her lingering perfume
Speaker 1: in the air, but no sound from the bathroom. I
Speaker 1: lay there, drifting between hope and unease, straining to hear
Speaker 1: the shower, a blow dryer, any proof that we were
Speaker 1: still living adjacent lives and not utterly divided ones. I
Speaker 1: found her on the balcony, hunched over her phone. She
Speaker 1: was texting, earbuds loosely hanging from her neck, thumbs swiping fast.
Speaker 1: I watched for a minute, almost childish in the way.
Speaker 1: I lingered by the door, waiting to be noticed, to
Speaker 1: witness her day opening up on me. She looked up, startled,
Speaker 1: but not sheepish. Hey, she said, voice bright, you want
Speaker 1: to join me at the farmer's market. Later, she pocketed
Speaker 1: her phone, slipping the device behind her back like a
Speaker 1: kid hiding a test paper. Shaw, I said, my own
Speaker 1: brightness a costume. I slid beside her coffee in hand.
Speaker 1: The city below was loud for eight thirty, sirens melting
Speaker 1: into week nd dog walkers, a delivery truck groaning at
Speaker 1: the curb. Kate gave me a small, careful smile, then
Speaker 1: tucked her feet up on the chair. She scrolled through
Speaker 1: her music one earbard in. Did I ever make you
Speaker 1: listen to that new run club playlist? She asked, holding
Speaker 1: up her phone. It's mostly stuff I'd never have picked,
Speaker 1: but it's good for keeping pace. I shook my head.
Speaker 1: Let's hear it. She pressed play, and thumping SYNTHCE popped out, hard, bright,
Speaker 1: nothing like the indie folks she used to sway to
Speaker 1: while cooking. Then a streak of rhythm, A song I'd
Speaker 1: only ever heard from some one else's car, the sort
Speaker 1: of thing we used to make fun of over brunch.
Speaker 1: Kate watched me for a flicker, almost defensive, then offered
Speaker 1: Chris says, this is the best warm up track. There
Speaker 1: was his name. She dropped it as if testing my reaction,
Speaker 1: then looked away. I pulled my knees up, letting the
Speaker 1: music pound against the old quiet between us. You seem
Speaker 1: happy with them, I said, picking my words as if
Speaker 1: plucking teeth. The club, the new crew, She smiled, but slower. Now.
Speaker 1: It's been good. I needed something different keeps me focused,
Speaker 1: and they're a good group. It's not like I don't
Speaker 1: want to be here too, you know. I nodded, watching her,
Speaker 1: trying to decide if that was a reassurance or an evasion.
Speaker 1: I tried to meet her there in openness, but my
Speaker 1: line of vision was blocked by her phone, by new music,
Speaker 1: new voices at the market. Our old rhythm clicked back,
Speaker 1: at least for an hour. Kate drifted from vendor to vendor,
Speaker 1: sampling jams, asking about goat cheese, squeezing tomatoes. She was
Speaker 1: charming in a way I remembered bantering with the old
Speaker 1: woman selling hydrangers, talking me into a punnet of figs.
Speaker 1: The pleasure of her focus, however, brief, was like water
Speaker 1: on dry grass. We walked home with tote bags, sunlight
Speaker 1: flickering between us. Kate's mood was high, a little giddy.
Speaker 1: I caught her texting again as we waited for the elevator,
Speaker 1: her mouth twitching up as the message fired off. I
Speaker 1: leaned in, making my tone light run club chat again.
Speaker 1: She looked at me, unreadable. Yeah, they're trying to organize
Speaker 1: a group run for tomorrow. Deciding who brings bagels. She
Speaker 1: tucked the phone away, then offered, you know you could
Speaker 1: join if you want. There's a beginner route. I wanted
Speaker 1: to say yes, if only to be let inside, if
Speaker 1: only to be close when the inside jokes started flying
Speaker 1: and the playlists queued up, But a stubborn part of
Speaker 1: me refused, like I'd already been cast the roll of
Speaker 1: the one left at home. I'll pass, I said, voice
Speaker 1: softer than I meant. You need your own thing, remember.
Speaker 1: She glanced sideways at me, her tensions sudden right, just offering.
Speaker 1: We put the groceries away together, working side by side
Speaker 1: in a brittle imitation of the old dance, letting the
Speaker 1: silence build until Kate finally retreated to the bedroom under
Speaker 1: the pretense of taking a call. For the rest of
Speaker 1: that weekend, our hours grew poorous. Kate spent much of
Speaker 1: Sunday out, first on a run, then at a coffee
Speaker 1: shop with her laptop, then at Mel's talking playlist logistics.
Speaker 1: I busied myself with errands. By the time she got home,
Speaker 1: her mood was pinched, almost brittle with fatigue. Monday, at work,
Speaker 1: I sat at my computer drafting elevations for a row
Speaker 1: house renovation, but my focus scattered every few minutes back
Speaker 1: to her to us. I checked the Running Club Instagram feed.
Speaker 1: Out of what curiosity dread both a new post Kate,
Speaker 1: red faced and grinning, hair up in a messy bun,
Speaker 1: posing for a selfie beside Chris, both holding coffee as
Speaker 1: if it were a trophy power duo. The caption read
Speaker 1: courtesy of another club member. The comments were friendly enough,
Speaker 1: but as I zoomed in, I saw how close they
Speaker 1: leaned the relaxed affection in Kate's smile. I dug back
Speaker 1: a few posts, looking for a pattern. More photos, mostly
Speaker 1: group shots, but always Kate and Chris near each other,
Speaker 1: sharing smiles, arms draped with lightly careless intimacy. It could
Speaker 1: mean nothing, but it felt like too much for nothing.
Speaker 1: At home that night, Kate came in late, apologetic. I
Speaker 1: lost track of time. We ended up planning a charity
Speaker 1: ten k Sorry I should have texted. She towed off
Speaker 1: her shoes, brown hair matted at the edges from sweat,
Speaker 1: the collar of her shirt still wet. I watched the
Speaker 1: pulse at her throat. I wanted to ask directly to
Speaker 1: aim the thing between us. Instead, I handed her a
Speaker 1: glass of water. Big weaker head, I asked. She swallowed,
Speaker 1: mopped her face with her sleeve. Yeah, works are bear
Speaker 1: and the club volunteered me for root captain planning. Chris
Speaker 1: is helping. You should see our Google dock, miles of it.
Speaker 1: Her smile this time was for herself, or maybe for
Speaker 1: some memory she wasn't ready to share. We watched a
Speaker 1: little TV together, barely speaking. When I stretched an arm
Speaker 1: behind her on the couch, she leaned away, fiddling with
Speaker 1: her phone. By Wednesday, our routines calcified Kates run nights
Speaker 1: lapped into what had once been hours. Thursday dinners skipped
Speaker 1: Saturday mornings claimed by early miles. Sunday afternoons reserved for
Speaker 1: club yoga in the park. Her perfume lingered in the
Speaker 1: bathroom ascent. I didn't recognize. Her work out gear grew
Speaker 1: more expensive, sleek, curated, like she was dressing for some one.
Speaker 1: I tried again, want to do something together Friday. I
Speaker 1: can book us a table at that new Italian place
Speaker 1: you mentioned. She hesitated. I promised the club had take
Speaker 1: point on the pre race meal. I might be late.
Speaker 1: Don't hold dinner for me. I nodded, slowly searching her
Speaker 1: eyes for regret, apology, something akin to old affection. Sure
Speaker 1: was all I managed. She seems happy, Marisa told me
Speaker 1: at the elevator one morning, holding a reusable mug of coffee,
Speaker 1: the yellow of her sweater too bright for the hour,
Speaker 1: like Zippy. That Chris is a riot. I caught them
Speaker 1: at the farmer's market. He was showing her some stupid
Speaker 1: tick tock. They laughed so hard I thought Kate would
Speaker 1: drop her eggs. She wasn't saying anything, but she watched
Speaker 1: me as she said it. They see each other a lot,
Speaker 1: I offered, I guess Marissa shrugged this time, careful. She
Speaker 1: just seems lighter, good right, My face must have answered her,
Speaker 1: the awkward, silent pressure of unsaid things passing between adults
Speaker 1: who know better than to get involved. Thursday night, Kate
Speaker 1: left for her run with more attention put into her
Speaker 1: ponentel than usual, the edge of traced eye liner sharp.
Speaker 1: As I handed her the mail, I brushed her shoulder
Speaker 1: as a gesture of good will, wanting to ground us,
Speaker 1: but she slipped lightly away. I tried not to read
Speaker 1: into it, poured myself a neat bourbon when she left,
Speaker 1: and drifted to our Spotify account. The playlists had multiplied,
Speaker 1: new titles, new covers, names I didn't know, long haul bops,
Speaker 1: Chill Downhill, Chris's vaves. I clicked through one bemused at
Speaker 1: the War on Drugs, and Future Islands, mixing with nineties
Speaker 1: house classics and a smattering of altpop I'd never pictured
Speaker 1: Kate enjoying. I scrolled the collaborative list. Chris's handle popped
Speaker 1: up on almost every track. Some song titles were annotated
Speaker 1: Kate's jog anthem best bridge for negative splits. The more
Speaker 1: I saw, the more I realized our ven diagram was shrinking,
Speaker 1: their overlap, expanding even our music, the soundtrack of our years,
Speaker 1: had become colonized by some one else's taste. I closed
Speaker 1: the app, restless, unable to lose myself in work. I
Speaker 1: tried once more to reach her a text, want to
Speaker 1: do breakfast out to morrow? Your call bagels, pancakes, Vietnamese.
Speaker 1: I'll wake up. She didn't answer until late. Sorry, got
Speaker 1: a seven a m. With the team rain check. The
Speaker 1: next morning, she was gone before I woke. The pattern
Speaker 1: her disappearing early, lingering late, always somewhere between plausible and
Speaker 1: just out of reach. Kept replicating the texts, got fewer
Speaker 1: and shorter phone calls, briefer. More than once. I walked
Speaker 1: into a room as she typed furiously, only for her
Speaker 1: to close her messages with a rapid flick. Who was that?
Speaker 1: I asked one night, watching the Blue Glow fade. Kate
Speaker 1: didn't flinch. Chris, he's pulling double duty for root mapping.
Speaker 1: The club group chat is a disaster. They can't plan anything.
Speaker 1: Do you ever unplug? I asked, more plaintive than I
Speaker 1: wanted to sound. She looked up frustration, flashing, work wants
Speaker 1: me available, the club needs stuff and you. She stopped,
Speaker 1: shaking her head softening after a beat. I'm sorry, I'll
Speaker 1: be better about it, but she was, at least not
Speaker 1: for me. A week later, I found myself pulling apart
Speaker 1: our finances, supposedly looking for an old charge i'd missed
Speaker 1: on an expense report. I wasn't sure even as I
Speaker 1: did it what I expected to find. But there, tucked
Speaker 1: between the usual groceries and utilities was an entry for
Speaker 1: the Revival Hotel midweek seven p m. One night only.
Speaker 1: Kate hadn't traveled for work since February. The night matched one.
Speaker 1: She'd come home after ten, tired and withdrawn, mumbling about
Speaker 1: client cocktails. I remembered then how she dropped her shoes
Speaker 1: by the door, gone straight for a shower, humming a
Speaker 1: song i'd heard earlier on the Running Club playlist. My
Speaker 1: mind ran wild, cycling through explanations. A group night out,
Speaker 1: maybe a mistake, the club being celebratory after a big run.
Speaker 1: But why the charge on our shared account? And why
Speaker 1: had she never mentioned it? That night? Over dinner, I
Speaker 1: tried to push for details, careful to sound invested, not interrogating.
Speaker 1: You keep busy these days, I said, meaning for it
Speaker 1: to sound supportive. That run club really does a number
Speaker 1: on your energy, she laughed, almost hollow. I keep telling
Speaker 1: myself I'll cut back one of these weeks, But then
Speaker 1: something new pops up, A group dinner, a race, whatever,
Speaker 1: It's fun, better than doom. Scrolling twitter rite she poked
Speaker 1: at a risotto, not meeting my eyes. And your work's
Speaker 1: still nuts, Kate sighed, rubbing her brow. Yeah, same as ever,
Speaker 1: counting down till Hugh three. Then why the serious face?
Speaker 1: Is everything okay? I wanted to tell her everything was
Speaker 1: not okay, that I could feel the before and after
Speaker 1: pressing in on me from both sides. But all I
Speaker 1: said was, you know you can talk to me right
Speaker 1: if you need help, or if if things get hard
Speaker 1: with work or anything. She reached out, then her hand
Speaker 1: over mine, the gesture so familiar. I nearly melted. Then
Speaker 1: she pulled away, as if she'd remembered herself mid motion. Thanks,
Speaker 1: she said, I'm just tired. After dinner, she claimed a
Speaker 1: headache and went to bed early, leaving me alone with
Speaker 1: her half finished wine. My anxiety finally spilled over that weekend.
Speaker 1: On Sunday morning, pretending to tidy up, I moved things
Speaker 1: in the living room and noticed Kate's running back left
Speaker 1: by the door, zipper open, contents spilling out. I hesitated,
Speaker 1: then knelt down, poking through the mesh pouch for headphones
Speaker 1: in one pocket her lips. I hadn't seen her wear
Speaker 1: in months, a deep bold red, the big meeting color,
Speaker 1: the one she wore when she wanted to be seen.
Speaker 1: A folded note was jammed between her sports bra and
Speaker 1: a protein bar. I hesitated, then uncrumpled it. A posted
Speaker 1: scrawled ace your ten k long run short shorts. You
Speaker 1: got this. See. It wasn't signed with Chris, wasn't even
Speaker 1: fully spelled out, just the single letter and a winking
Speaker 1: face drawn beside it. My hands shook as I refolded it.
Speaker 1: Not love, not sex written there, but far too intimate
Speaker 1: for what Kate had described as group banter. I felt
Speaker 1: a flash of guilt, and then, just as quickly anger.
Speaker 1: By the time Kate returned, hair damp, cheeks flushed from
Speaker 1: the run, I was perched on the arm of the couch,
Speaker 1: the note burning a square in my memory. She unwound
Speaker 1: her headphones, smiling in the pure, uncomplicated way you give
Speaker 1: someone who doesn't yet know your hiding. How was it?
Speaker 1: I asked? She beamed, crushed it personal best, even though
Speaker 1: the hill nearly killed me. Chris kept pace and wouldn't
Speaker 1: let me slack. It was a fun one. She peeled
Speaker 1: off her jacket, loose and energized. I could have confronted her,
Speaker 1: could have blurted it all out, Chris, the note, the hotel,
Speaker 1: the playlist, the growing routines I had no finger prints on. Instead,
Speaker 1: I tested the waters again, treading just at the edge
Speaker 1: of what we both must have been feeling. Maybe next
Speaker 1: time I'll tag along, I said, voice flat. She didn't
Speaker 1: answer directly, pretending not to hear. Want some coffee. We
Speaker 1: brewed a pot, moving around each other in careful loops. Later,
Speaker 1: I texted Sam in a moment of uncertainty. You and
Speaker 1: Kate ever hang out with the run club? I barely
Speaker 1: know any one, Sam replied hours later, Breezy just at
Speaker 1: Wyatt's that time mostly her crew, you know, not my
Speaker 1: cardio scene, but I see her and Chris sometimes grabbing
Speaker 1: drinks after runs. There it was again, Chris's name rolling
Speaker 1: naturally off someone else's tongue, another space I'd been locked
Speaker 1: out from, except now my mind heard it in every
Speaker 1: kind word, every laugh. Kate saved for someone else. I
Speaker 1: checked the calendar on Kate's laptop the next day while
Speaker 1: she was in the shower. There were blocks titled team Debrief, run, Planning,
Speaker 1: catch up, generic enough, but the times always aligned with nights.
Speaker 1: She came home warm and giddy, sometimes late enough that
Speaker 1: I'd given up and eaten alone. A few recurring invites
Speaker 1: had attachments, but her inbox was pristine, either archived obsessively
Speaker 1: or something else. I hesitated, then opened photos, clicking into
Speaker 1: her sinked camera roll. The latest albums were mostly running
Speaker 1: snap shots. A group selfie on the boardwalk, Kate front
Speaker 1: and center, shoulder pressed into Chris's. A photo of their
Speaker 1: sneakers lined up at a trail head, her bright blue
Speaker 1: pair alongside eyed his charcoal nikes. A shot of two
Speaker 1: negronies clinking in a bar. I didn't know. I closed
Speaker 1: the laptop. Ice in my veins, my life, the clean
Speaker 1: and documented rituals of partnership used to feel as solid
Speaker 1: as concrete. Now it felt porous, invaded by some one
Speaker 1: else's handwriting, jokes, taste in music, shape of affection. I
Speaker 1: felt like a living placeholder, still cooking, still present, but
Speaker 1: not chosen. Monday evening, as I chopped carrots for dinner.
Speaker 1: Kate came in on a wave of giggles, her phone
Speaker 1: pressed to her ear. Yeah, but then you'd have to
Speaker 1: teach me how. She froze as she saw me covering
Speaker 1: the mouthpiecets. Hey, sorry, can I call you back? Her
Speaker 1: eyes darted Yeah, just yeah. Later she leaned in, offered
Speaker 1: her cheek, then pulled away before I could touch her.
Speaker 1: I stirred the soup, searching for a way in. Was
Speaker 1: that Chris, I asked gently, just curious? She hesitated, dropped
Speaker 1: her back with more force than it needed. Yeah, he
Speaker 1: forgets the order of stretches for Tuesday. Honestly, he's helpless.
Speaker 1: I nodded, believing nothing and everything. Dinner was quiet, the
Speaker 1: air thick with what neither of us said. Kate excused herself,
Speaker 1: sighting a proposal deadline. I wandered the apartment, picking up
Speaker 1: after us, both feeling like a ghost or a witness
Speaker 1: to my own diminishing roll. The next morning, I tried
Speaker 1: a new tactic and actual conversation. As we ate, elbows
Speaker 1: almost touching, I said Kate, I feel like we're falling
Speaker 1: out of sink. Maybe it's work, maybe it's just life.
Speaker 1: But things feel different. Her face stiffened. You always do
Speaker 1: this when you get anxious. She stacked her dishes briskly.
Speaker 1: I just have stuff going on. Why does everything have
Speaker 1: to be about us drifting? Why can't I have something
Speaker 1: for myself? Her voice was cracking, angry, but I heard
Speaker 1: the fear riding under it. I wanted to reach, but
Speaker 1: I knew then I couldn't, not right now. That afternoon,
Speaker 1: I caught up with Jennifer from the running club again,
Speaker 1: this time on the sidewalk amid her post run cooldon.
Speaker 1: You and Kate are tight, ha, I prodded, watching for
Speaker 1: her reaction. She hesitated, we chat. Honestly, she and Chris
Speaker 1: are together more they get each other, I guess. She
Speaker 1: bit her lip as if she'd said too much, then
Speaker 1: changed the subject. You running yet you should join? It? Helps?
Speaker 1: I wanted to ask her, helps with what? Instead? I
Speaker 1: laughed it off. Nights blurred. Kate came home late, showered
Speaker 1: off the sweat and perfume of her other life, slipped
Speaker 1: quietly into bed beside me, silent and careful. The affection
Speaker 1: I craved felt like a memory. She started leaving early
Speaker 1: before my alarm, leaving only a note or a text
Speaker 1: early miles, see you at dinner. But even when she
Speaker 1: did come to dinner, she wasn't fully there. Her stories
Speaker 1: bent toward the running club, recounting moments, jokes, roots, arguments
Speaker 1: about shoes. She was alive there A half turned bloom.
Speaker 1: I tried, once more, next month, let's actually get out,
Speaker 1: just you and me. We keep putting it off. She
Speaker 1: gave a sad smile. Maybe we'll see. We never pinned
Speaker 1: a date. My own body felt changed, tighter, more brittle,
Speaker 1: as if the tension had taken up residence in my
Speaker 1: muscles and wouldn't leave. At the office, I started snapping
Speaker 1: at junior associates, apologizing, biting off comments before they tumbled out.
Speaker 1: Project meetings dragged. I became the guy who stared at
Speaker 1: his phone during lunch, waiting for some clue that would
Speaker 1: undo all that ache. One night, I got up to
Speaker 1: pea and found Kate in the living room, curled into
Speaker 1: a ball on the chaise, whispering into her phone. She
Speaker 1: noticed me, eyes startled and quickly said, yeah, I'll hang on,
Speaker 1: I've got to go. She pocketed the phone and stared
Speaker 1: at her toes. Couldn't sleep, I asked, gentler than I felt.
Speaker 1: She shook her head, rubbing her eyes, just thinking. I
Speaker 1: wanted to cross the space between us, to lift her
Speaker 1: into my arms and remind her this is home. But
Speaker 1: I didn't. I went back to bed, heart thrashing with
Speaker 1: hope and anger, anger at myself for still wanting. The
Speaker 1: world outside kept spinning unbothered. Kate laughed with her crew,
Speaker 1: ran her miles, texted her confidante. I noticed she'd started
Speaker 1: wearing a new charm on her keechin, a little silver
Speaker 1: running shoe, not her style, Almost certainly a gift, I
Speaker 1: could have asked, I didn't. A slow revelation grew. I
Speaker 1: wasn't imagining this. The evidence was everywhere, written into the
Speaker 1: fabric of our every day, somewhere in the blur of work,
Speaker 1: routine and running. Kate had begun to withdraw peace by piece,
Speaker 1: until who she was with me became entangled with who
Speaker 1: she was with some one else. But proof, real direct
Speaker 1: inescapable proof continued to dangle just out of reach, and
Speaker 1: then finally it came, And then finally it came. I
Speaker 1: barely slept that night, every shadow of the ceiling turning
Speaker 1: into three different futures by dawn, when the sunlight broke through.
Speaker 1: I was thinner than I had gone to bed, hollowed
Speaker 1: out by all I'd guessed, and yet still not truly known.
Speaker 1: The ache had finally condensed into something specific, the outlines
Speaker 1: of Chris, the note, the hotel receipt, all of it
Speaker 1: threading together into a shape. I could no longer deny
Speaker 1: that Monday was supposed to be routine. I went to
Speaker 1: work numb and mechanical. Co workers drifted by with their
Speaker 1: coffee splashes and half jokes, but I didn't see them.
Speaker 1: Every time my phone buzzed a slack a calendar ping,
Speaker 1: I imagined it would be Kate, confessing, explaining, reaching out,
Speaker 1: anything except the steady silence she gave me. I stared
Speaker 1: at my blueprints, lines blurry, and finally shut my laptop.
Speaker 1: It was after lunch time, anyway. I walked home early,
Speaker 1: feeling like I was trespassing in my own building. The
Speaker 1: apartment was quiet, Kate's shoes by the door, mail stacked
Speaker 1: on the counter, a bowl with the bruised lemons she
Speaker 1: liked for her morning water. All our life continuing by
Speaker 1: muscle memory, while under the surface, everything I knew was boiling.
Speaker 1: At four, Kate texted me running late w club, might
Speaker 1: just grab dinner out with the crew. Don't wait up,
Speaker 1: an echo of that first message weeks ago. She didn't
Speaker 1: ask if I wanted to join, She didn't explain when
Speaker 1: she'd be home. I stood there, the city going pink
Speaker 1: and blue outside, weighed down by my decision. I needed proof,
Speaker 1: not just for myself, but for the last piece of
Speaker 1: me that wanted desperately to hope I was wrong. I
Speaker 1: pulled out my laptop, opened our Spotify account, watched the
Speaker 1: collaborative playlist update in real time as new tracks dropped in,
Speaker 1: some marked by Chris's usename for to Night one was marked.
Speaker 1: I scrolled through their message history on the iPad. Nothing.
Speaker 1: She d wiped it clean. I paged through our finances again.
Speaker 1: The revival hotel charge, the oddly expensive bar tabs, the
Speaker 1: new charge from a bodega near Chris's apartment. It wasn't criminal,
Speaker 1: but it wasn't careful either. It was blooming evidence enough
Speaker 1: for any one else to see, enough for me. I
Speaker 1: called Jennifer. My voice tired, my hope brittle. Have you
Speaker 1: seen Kate to night with the club? There was a pause. Yeah,
Speaker 1: they were at Mel's. Then some of them headed out
Speaker 1: for drinks. I think Kate and Chris went together. Is
Speaker 1: everything O? Kay? There? It was undeniable. When Kate hadn't
Speaker 1: come home by midnight, I lay on the guest bed
Speaker 1: with my hands behind my head, eyes wide open, staring
Speaker 1: at the blank in the dark. I thought about calling
Speaker 1: her cell. I didn't. She slid in at half past one.
Speaker 1: Her keys rattled quietly, almost apologetically. She padded to the bedroom,
Speaker 1: not noticing I wasn't in our bed. I listened as
Speaker 1: she changed, slow and careful, then the patter of her
Speaker 1: steps as she noticed my absence. She didn't call my name,
Speaker 1: just paused outside the guest room, then retreated. The next morning,
Speaker 1: the kitchen was sharp with the smell of burnt toast.
Speaker 1: Kate was hunched over her mug, scrolling her phone, eyes
Speaker 1: rimmed in tired red. You're up early, she said, I
Speaker 1: sat opposite. Neither of us moved. I didn't sleep, I said,
Speaker 1: neither did you, I guess. She looked at me, then away,
Speaker 1: scrolling something invisible. Late night, I pressed, gentler than I felt.
Speaker 1: She sipped her coffee. Yeah, club went out, lost track
Speaker 1: of time. Didn't want to wake you. There was a
Speaker 1: wound in the flatness of her tone. I want to
Speaker 1: throw it all on the table right there, but I hesitated,
Speaker 1: scared suddenly of how much I needed the truth to
Speaker 1: just be some other failure, anything besides what it nearly was.
Speaker 1: I saw another hotel charge, I said, finally, a week ago,
Speaker 1: you said you had a work dinner. She stilled but
Speaker 1: didn't look up. Yeah, group thing after the run. Everyone
Speaker 1: chipped in to get space to change before drinks. It
Speaker 1: was easier. Her voice was too quick, almost bored. I
Speaker 1: remembered the scent of that unfamiliar perfume on her clothes
Speaker 1: that night, the way she'd moved around me, absent, remote.
Speaker 1: For the rest of the day, the space between us
Speaker 1: was glacial. Every time I reached for some familiar pattern,
Speaker 1: a text about groceries, a question about her day, I
Speaker 1: stopped myself, not trusting my own instinct for connection. Later,
Speaker 1: as I tidied the apartment, I found her running bag
Speaker 1: slouched behind the couch. I hesitated, then unzipped it. The
Speaker 1: same lipstick, a half empty bottle of a new perfume,
Speaker 1: and another note, this time not even folded. Call when
Speaker 1: you get in, please see no winking face, just blank urgency.
Speaker 1: By evening, my rational mind had been replaced by something tenser,
Speaker 1: more stripped down. I started thinking not just of what
Speaker 1: I'd lose, but what it would cost to keep pretending.
Speaker 1: I looked at the calendar. Our anniversary was coming up,
Speaker 1: the one night each year we swore was just ours.
Speaker 1: I couldn't do another one like this. That night, I
Speaker 1: ate alone, Kate texting that she was at Chris's the club,
Speaker 1: debrief having turned into drinks again. I sent Sam a
Speaker 1: quick message, Hey, random, if you hear anything about Kate
Speaker 1: to night, let me know. Sam called immediately, his voice low,
Speaker 1: Hey you good. I'm sorry. I saw them at the
Speaker 1: bar after run club. Not a group, just the two
Speaker 1: of them. They left together. You want me to talk
Speaker 1: to her? My words felt shriveled. No thanks, though, I'll
Speaker 1: talk to her. When I hung up, the certainty landed fully.
Speaker 1: For the first time. It wasn't a question any more.
Speaker 1: It was an answer, just not the one I wanted.
Speaker 1: From there, everything in my body coiled tight as a spring.
Speaker 1: The normal world streamed by e mails, neighborly helloes, the
Speaker 1: shape of our apartment in the evening light, but I
Speaker 1: was only half alive inside it. I was waiting. Night
Speaker 1: fell and the city outside began to press in, with
Speaker 1: its neon softness, distant sirens, the scrape of footsteps on pavement.
Speaker 1: I left the apartment lights off. I sat at the kitchen,
Speaker 1: counter facing the hall phone on the table, a single
Speaker 1: lamp illuminating the spilled stack of receipts and the open
Speaker 1: playlist on my laptop. I wanted her to see everything.
Speaker 1: I wanted, at last, to stop needing, to believe there
Speaker 1: was still something left to salvage in not knowing. Kate
Speaker 1: came in just after ten. She was flushed, winded, face
Speaker 1: shining with rain or sweat. She stilled when she saw
Speaker 1: me in the kitchen. Didn't look scared, just careful. You're up,
Speaker 1: she said quiet. I gestured to the laptop. My voice
Speaker 1: when it came surprised me with how steady it was.
Speaker 1: We need to talk. She moved to the sink, back
Speaker 1: to me. Can it wait until morning? It's late and no,
Speaker 1: I said, But even then, part of me wanted to
Speaker 1: offer her an out, a chance to fix this before
Speaker 1: it was unsalvagable. I know about Chris, the hotel, the receipts,
Speaker 1: the running bag. I know you deleted your messages. I
Speaker 1: know you've been at his place. A tiny muscle in
Speaker 1: her jaw flickered. She stared out the window for a
Speaker 1: long beat before finally setting her phone down. Silence thickened
Speaker 1: between us. It's not what you think, she whispered finally,
Speaker 1: her face turning toward me, but her eyes fixed some
Speaker 1: where behind my shoulder. I almost laughed, a short, stunned bark,
Speaker 1: but it came out as a broken sigh. What do
Speaker 1: I think that you've been lying to me for months?
Speaker 1: Because that's what it looks like. She set her shoulders,
Speaker 1: breathing hard, then turned, face hardening in the artificial light.
Speaker 1: You don't understand. I never meant for it to get
Speaker 1: Her voice fractured. My voice climbed tight. Did you sleep
Speaker 1: with him? Just tell me, tell me the truth, Kate.
Speaker 1: Her face cracked, then heavy with exhaustion. It wasn't supposed
Speaker 1: to happen like this. I just I wanted something to
Speaker 1: feel good. It started because I was lonely, not looking
Speaker 1: for anything more. Chris listened to me. He didn't see
Speaker 1: me through the lens of old grievances, or half way attention,
Speaker 1: or I interrupted, voice trembling. Don't put this on me.
Speaker 1: Didn't you think I would have listened? Didn't you think
Speaker 1: she deflated? I know, I know. I just didn't want
Speaker 1: feel small any more. I'm not blaming you, I'm not.
Speaker 1: But I couldn't breathe here. Everything felt thick and tight
Speaker 1: and dead. And then with him I could. God, I'm sorry,
Speaker 1: I'm so sorry. I stood my stool scraping the tile
Speaker 1: in a jagged line. How long she put a shaking
Speaker 1: hand to her forehead. A few times? I lost count?
Speaker 1: Not every week, she snorted, bitterly, tears gathering. If you
Speaker 1: want to know, yes, Yes I slept with him. Yes
Speaker 1: we went to the hotel. Yes, the notes and the
Speaker 1: jokes and the playlists are his. Did you think I
Speaker 1: was ever going to just tell you? I didn't even
Speaker 1: want to say it to myself. Her face was bleak.
Speaker 1: I thought I could keep it from you. I thought
Speaker 1: maybe it would end, that it had let me come
Speaker 1: back to us. I looked at her then, long and searching,
Speaker 1: as if there was some answer stamped on her skin
Speaker 1: that could justify the tearing a part of everything we'd built.
Speaker 1: Did you love him, i asked, my voice flat. She
Speaker 1: shook her head violently. No, not love, not even close.
Speaker 1: I just needed something to hold on to while I drowned.
Speaker 1: He was there. I needed to feel like I wasn't disappearing,
Speaker 1: I heard myself say, And did I make you feel
Speaker 1: like that? She sobbed, then row and rung out, voice
Speaker 1: catching on all the words she'd hidden for months. Sometimes,
Speaker 1: but I never wanted to hurt you. I just did.
Speaker 1: I did hurt you. My anger, when it finally filled
Speaker 1: my chest, wasn't just rage. It was humiliation, ache, grief.
Speaker 1: I put my hands on the counter, grounding myself, afraid
Speaker 1: i'd shake to pieces. You broke us all of it.
Speaker 1: You broke us for a handful of inside jokes and
Speaker 1: playlists and what the thrill of some one new? She
Speaker 1: opened her mouth, closed it, then finally said, I know,
Speaker 1: I know. There's nothing I can fix right now. I'm
Speaker 1: so sorry. I can't explain it away. I can't please.
Speaker 1: We stood there, neither of us able to erase what
Speaker 1: had been said. Do you even want to try and
Speaker 1: fix this? I asked, meeting her eyes in the wreckage.
Speaker 1: She didn't answer for a moment, just stared at her shoes,
Speaker 1: tears streaking down her cheeks. In the silence, the answer
Speaker 1: filled the room. I slept in the guest room again,
Speaker 1: body made of stones. When I woke, Kate was already up,
Speaker 1: moving quietly through the apartment, pulling a small duffel from
Speaker 1: the closet. She didn't slam drawers or move theatrically, just quiet,
Speaker 1: deliberate motion. She paused in the doorway, watching me with empty,
Speaker 1: red rimmed eyes. I'll stay at Gen's for a bit,
Speaker 1: give you space, she said, her voice barely carried. I
Speaker 1: didn't trust my voice, so I just nodded. She left
Speaker 1: a note on the kitchen counter. It only said I'm sorry.
Speaker 1: The apartment felt sharp edged. Every trace of her presence
Speaker 1: had cut her mug by the sink, her phone charger
Speaker 1: by the bed, her perfume goasting through the hallway. I
Speaker 1: called out, sick at work, sat on the edge of
Speaker 1: the bed, hands limp in my lap, and ache rooting
Speaker 1: itself where belief used to be. I opened our shared
Speaker 1: Spotify account, hovered over the playlist, where Kate and Chris's
Speaker 1: names mingled in cheerful curation, and one at a time,
Speaker 1: deleted every single song. I texted Sam, need some time,
Speaker 1: not talking to any one right now. My parents called
Speaker 1: sensing something had cracked, just a rough patch, I said.
Speaker 1: I moved through the rest of the day, untangling bank accounts,
Speaker 1: canceling our anniversary dinner, and writing a note for Kate's mail,
Speaker 1: practical things with hands that hardly felt like my own.
Speaker 1: I sat at dusk on the couch alone, dim light
Speaker 1: throwing long shadows. The silence was deafening, the ache of
Speaker 1: her absence even louder. I stood up and went to
Speaker 1: the closet, gathered all traces of her running gear, the
Speaker 1: pads of new shoes, the perfume she'd used, the note
Speaker 1: from Chris that still sat hidden in her bag. I
Speaker 1: carried them one by one to a cardboard box and
Speaker 1: taped its shut. I scrawled her name on the top.
Speaker 1: Practical final I set the box by our apartment door,
Speaker 1: not with any theatrical flourish, but with a clean, tight, efficiency,
Speaker 1: reserved for things that had to be done. For a moment,
Speaker 1: I just stood there, palm resting on the box, hearing
Speaker 1: the distant echo of a private joke, the old familiar
Speaker 1: slide of her keys in the lock. Then I turned away.
Speaker 1: No tears, not yet, just hollow and certain. I walked
Speaker 1: into the living room, paused beneath the print we'd picked
Speaker 1: out together during our first spring in the apartment. A
Speaker 1: bright field, lines, sharp colours, muddy in the dusk, the
Speaker 1: edges softening as the sun slid out of reach. I
Speaker 1: looked at it, just for a moment, and let myself
Speaker 1: remember what it felt like before everything got small. Then
Speaker 1: I flicked off the light, listened to the hush that
Speaker 1: settled in its wake, and sat down to wait for
Speaker 1: whatever would come next. For a long time, I stood
Speaker 1: in the gloom, hands trembling at my sides, staring through
Speaker 1: the window at the city below. Horns blared somewhere in
Speaker 1: the distance, washing up from the avenue. I could hear
Speaker 1: the faint, low throb from the bar at the end
Speaker 1: of our block, a sound that seemed to vibrate in
Speaker 1: my bones. This apartment, ours for nearly six years, had
Speaker 1: never felt emptier. The box by the door, filled with
Speaker 1: evidence of the woman I loved and now barely recognized,
Speaker 1: was at once a relief and a condemnation. Eventually, I
Speaker 1: drifted through the rooms, restless, unable to just sit. I'd
Speaker 1: always imagined the end of something like this would feel catastrophic,
Speaker 1: a storm shattering through the walls instead. The silence felt careful,
Speaker 1: like we both tiptoed out of our shared life and
Speaker 1: shut the door softly behind us, afraid of waking something worse.
Speaker 1: The phone buzzed once, a text from Kate. Still just
Speaker 1: three words, so sorry, not a plea, not an argument.
Speaker 1: Grief maybe or guilt. But I recognized painfully she wasn't
Speaker 1: asking me for anything. I caught my reflection in the
Speaker 1: living room mirror and looked away. My mouth was drawn,
Speaker 1: the skin under my eyes gray. There was no Catharsis,
Speaker 1: only this thumping, hollow ache. I wandered to the kitchen,
Speaker 1: absently filling a glass of water, just to have something
Speaker 1: in my hands. The print on the wall, the bright field,
Speaker 1: its careless color, was suddenly impossible to look at. I
Speaker 1: turned it to face the wall, then slumped into a chair,
Speaker 1: elbows on knees. Minutes crawled to distract myself. I scrolled
Speaker 1: to my e mail, only to find a calendar invite
Speaker 1: blinking in the notifications, anniversary dinner seven thirty p m.
Speaker 1: I'd forgotten to delete it. Clicking open the reservation felt obscene,
Speaker 1: a remnant of a life that had carried on blindly
Speaker 1: over the cliff counseling wasn't enough. I typed, deleted, then
Speaker 1: re typed a message to Kate. Dinner is canceled. Your
Speaker 1: mail is by the door. Let me know if you
Speaker 1: want some one else to collect it. No signature. When
Speaker 1: I put my phone down, a pressure I hadn't noticed
Speaker 1: in my chest eased, just barely. I felt the urge
Speaker 1: to text her something more, anything, Why, how could you
Speaker 1: what now? Instead? I gripped the edge of the table
Speaker 1: until my knuckles hurt and let the need pass. Outside,
Speaker 1: the city changed colors, the orange haze of street lights
Speaker 1: crawling up the walls. I let the apartment drift into
Speaker 1: near darkness. I didn't want light. I wanted numbness, a clean,
Speaker 1: steady nothing. I showered, eventually, letting the hot water pound
Speaker 1: uselessly at the tension tying up my shoulders. As I
Speaker 1: dried off, I found one of Kate's stretched bands on
Speaker 1: the bathroom floor. For a moment, rage and tenderness both
Speaker 1: choked me. I threw it in the box by the door,
Speaker 1: then stared at the wet tile, willing the tears to come.
Speaker 1: They wouldn't, not yet. By the time midnight stretched in,
Speaker 1: I gave up trying to sleep. Every attempt to close
Speaker 1: my eyes replayed the last hour with Kate in the kitchen,
Speaker 1: her face a ruin, her hands shaking as she tried
Speaker 1: to explain the inexplicable. Every new angle returned me to
Speaker 1: the same answer. This was what betrayal felt like. Not
Speaker 1: loud at all, just airless. A feeble sunrise crept through
Speaker 1: the blinds. I made coffee only for myself, the simple
Speaker 1: act feeling like a betrayal all its own. I sipped
Speaker 1: it standing by the window, looking at the trains gliding
Speaker 1: silently beyond the roof tops. I realized I didn't know
Speaker 1: where Kate was, whether she'd arrived at Gens or slept
Speaker 1: at some neutral hotel room. I wanted to care, but
Speaker 1: all I felt was the dull pressure of being unmoored.
Speaker 1: My phone vibrated a message from my boss, just a
Speaker 1: neutral you O kay for the call This afternoon. I
Speaker 1: typed can't emergency and left it at that. My parents
Speaker 1: called again, and I let it ring, watching their old
Speaker 1: photo id dance on the glass. The need to explain
Speaker 1: drained away before it could surface. Late morning, I checked
Speaker 1: our joint bank ap Habit and nerves a new withdrawal
Speaker 1: eight m nowhere I recognized. I stared at the screen,
Speaker 1: at the old reflex to turn this into another clue.
Speaker 1: But it wasn't a clue, not any more, just fall out.
Speaker 1: The rest of the day, I methodically severed the small ties.
Speaker 1: I removed Kate from our sinked grocery list, logged her
Speaker 1: out of our Spotify family plan, deleted the running club
Speaker 1: group calendar from the shared desktop. Each action was so administrative,
Speaker 1: so limply official, it almost made me laugh. Eight years
Speaker 1: boiled down to tech settings and logistics. The only thing
Speaker 1: I couldn't bring myself to do was clear the photos.
Speaker 1: Not yet. I opened our cloud archive, clicking through beaches
Speaker 1: and birthdays, flights and late night ice cream runs, half
Speaker 1: seconds of joy and irritation, and everything gave our routine
Speaker 1: its shape. In every one Kate was there, always in motion,
Speaker 1: always pulling me forward, except now she was moving away.
Speaker 1: Around three, a knock at the door spun me upright.
Speaker 1: I braced for a confrontation, the dread of some further
Speaker 1: final blow. It was Jennifer, standing awkward in the hall,
Speaker 1: a bag in her hand. She looked hollow, uncertain. Kate
Speaker 1: asked if I could pick up her stuff, she said, quietly,
Speaker 1: eyes sliding past me into the apartment. I nodded, stepping aside.
Speaker 1: It's there, I said, gesturing to the box. She lingered,
Speaker 1: shifting her weight, then said, she's she's not OK. You know.
Speaker 1: I don't think she thought it would go like this.
Speaker 1: Her voice was hoarse, the words stumbling out as a
Speaker 1: kind of apology for the loyalty she was about to show.
Speaker 1: I didn't know how to answer. Nobody does, I said, finally,
Speaker 1: voice scratchy. Jennifer cradled the box, hesitated, if you need anything,
Speaker 1: some one to talk to, or just yell at let
Speaker 1: me know. I managed a threadbare smile. Thanks, Jen, But
Speaker 1: I think we're both just going to have to work
Speaker 1: it out, she nodded, descending the hallway with my former
Speaker 1: life in her arms. The apartment was emptier than before,
Speaker 1: the door ceiling behind her with a muffled click. For
Speaker 1: the first time, I realized Kate would not be back,
Speaker 1: not to day, not to this home. The keys in
Speaker 1: the bowl would lose their purpose, The anniversary calendar alert
Speaker 1: would have no one to ding for. There would be
Speaker 1: no us, not in any sense I recognized. I sat
Speaker 1: for a long time At one point I started a
Speaker 1: message to Kate, stopped, erased it. Instead, I opened my
Speaker 1: sketch book, the same battered one I used in the
Speaker 1: weeks after my mother's surgery when I couldn't sleep or think.
Speaker 1: The cool press of pen to paper, angles and cross
Speaker 1: hatched shadows was as close to comfort as anything else.
Speaker 1: Through the outline of our apartment, the smooth lines of
Speaker 1: the window, the clutter of the kitchen counter, the plain
Speaker 1: surface of her absence in the space where her shoes
Speaker 1: used to be, lined up, always at an angle. I
Speaker 1: shaded light, then darkness, then closed the book and put
Speaker 1: it away. When dusk came, I stood once more at
Speaker 1: the window, gazing at the city, unable to escape the
Speaker 1: echo of our first night. Moved in, laughing amid boxes,
Speaker 1: arguing over where to put the print. Now turned to
Speaker 1: the wall, my hands found the edge of the window frame,
Speaker 1: the city's noise swelling. I waited there, letting the ache
Speaker 1: anchor me, letting the ghost of what had been settle
Speaker 1: sharp and clear. For the first time since the truth
Speaker 1: had settled in, I allowed myself not to hope for
Speaker 1: a knock, a text, or reprieve. I let everything be quiet, grief, rage, memory,
Speaker 1: and felt somewhere deeper than words, the tremor of something
Speaker 1: else beneath it. Not forgiveness, not relief, just the silent
Speaker 1: balance after a collapse, the rooms still and hollow and
Speaker 1: honest at last,