Speaker 1: The house is impossibly quiet at midnight, the kind of
Speaker 1: hush that drapes itself over the furniture, soaks into the
Speaker 1: floorboards and refuses to be disturbed. Even the traffic outside
Speaker 1: our apartment seems to have thinned. No distant horns or laughter,
Speaker 1: just the heavy pulse of the fridge humming across the
Speaker 1: open kitchen. I stand there, barefoot in weak old pajama pants,
Speaker 1: staring at the neat white box on the counter. Laura
Speaker 1: packed at herself. I know, because she always ties the
Speaker 1: bakery boxes twice, with the same little double knot at
Speaker 1: the top, as if the desserts inside knee protection from
Speaker 1: the small disasters of transport. I untie the knot, sliding
Speaker 1: the red string apart, already smelling the bitter sweet coffee
Speaker 1: sire a blade between sheets of almond sponge, the dark
Speaker 1: smudge of chocolate ganish marking the border between air un
Speaker 1: velvet opera cake. Laura's surprise, even though she must remember
Speaker 1: hell I told her on Tuesday, stirring coffee in the
Speaker 1: half dark, that I was sick of coffee and desserts.
Speaker 1: Funny how she always gets locked onto rich holes even
Speaker 1: when I've told her I'm moving on. Inside. Two slices
Speaker 1: sit perfectly, unmarked, edges pristine. It's two percent for accident.
Speaker 1: My first thought is that she's measured them for pleading,
Speaker 1: or maybe for fodo. But the grain of the cake,
Speaker 1: the untouched chocolate glaze. No, these are for sharing, meant
Speaker 1: to be presented, one for her, one for what I
Speaker 1: find myself standing there, knife poise, thinking about the way
Speaker 1: Laureling is at the bakery. After closing, telling me she's
Speaker 1: got inverses, new dose schedules, to sort, fenders, to chase
Speaker 1: to night. She texted just a quick might be late,
Speaker 1: closing with Brian ray Check on movie with a little
Speaker 1: slice of cakemoji. She sends those when she feels guilty.
Speaker 1: I should text her I thank you maybe, But instead
Speaker 1: I hesitate, staring at the little symbol next to her name,
Speaker 1: lighting up act of thirteen minutes ago. I picture her,
Speaker 1: flower still on her knuckles, foam wedge between shoulder and cheek,
Speaker 1: laughing at something I don't hear. She used to laugh
Speaker 1: with me that way. Now her laughter doesn't reach me,
Speaker 1: not even an echo through the wall. So I put
Speaker 1: down my phone and cut into the cake. The knife
Speaker 1: glides the slush comes out clean. I played it, stare
Speaker 1: at them to chair across our small kitchen table. I
Speaker 1: don't try to eat. Instead, my eyes wandered the room,
Speaker 1: the glow of street lights, bounced rain across the window,
Speaker 1: the stack of kilinary books Laura's mother sent last Christmas.
Speaker 1: It should all feel more comforting. Instead, it buzzes with
Speaker 1: this low, restless electricity. I can't place it, so I
Speaker 1: package the second slice rapid tadly and tuck it into
Speaker 1: the fridge. Maybe it's work stress. Maybe I'm catastrophizing. In
Speaker 1: a silence, I hear her earlier warning, I don't wait up, Nick,
Speaker 1: not worth it. But I do wait up, and I
Speaker 1: wonder when it was I started feeling like this, like
Speaker 1: someone standing outside my own life, seeing through double glazed glass.
Speaker 1: Sometimes I replay how easily we used to talk, Not
Speaker 1: in the big ways, those are easy to romanticize, but
Speaker 1: in the offan moments. Seven years and it should be
Speaker 1: habit this rhythm of half her jokes in overshaved kitchen stories.
Speaker 1: She's always said, no secrets, that's the only rule. But
Speaker 1: lately rules feel slippery, the kind of thing you only
Speaker 1: notice right when you start to break them. The first
Speaker 1: time I ever saw lower Whale, really saw her. She
Speaker 1: was sitting at an arrow table in a desert, face
Speaker 1: so small you could hear the stuff breathing. In the kitchen,
Speaker 1: I just finished my last art school critique, hand stained
Speaker 1: with pencil dust, echo somewhere between hopeful and humiliated, Laura
Speaker 1: struck up a conversation over the wrong order her tiremasu
Speaker 1: my almond tart, both misplaced, swapped in knowingly by a
Speaker 1: server with a student badge. She laughed when I apologized
Speaker 1: too many times wide and unguarded, the way adults rarely do.
Speaker 1: By the time they hit thirty, I was twenty nine.
Speaker 1: She was a couple of months shy of twenty eight,
Speaker 1: but already running her first pop up out of a
Speaker 1: borrowed coffee shop. She grinned, reached from a napkin, and
Speaker 1: sketched a crooked little coss in purple pen coving my
Speaker 1: doodles without irony. We traded phone numbers of a whipped cream.
Speaker 1: Two hours later. We both confess so many impossibly ambitious dreams.
Speaker 1: I wondered if ambition was contagious, or if maybe it
Speaker 1: just masked everything else. We built our life around that
Speaker 1: small pleasures, big flavors. Our apartment is a coloss of
Speaker 1: battered illustration boards and gadgets post maker. She's never used
Speaker 1: the air press she bought me that I abandoned for
Speaker 1: French press months ago. Stacks of cook books and the
Speaker 1: green leafy trappings of hasblants. I wader them when she forgets,
Speaker 1: which as always. There was a time when I find
Speaker 1: her elbows deep in flower across the kitchen, her hair
Speaker 1: tied up and a messy knot, grinning over a bowl
Speaker 1: of a mixed batter, waving me closer for flavored tests.
Speaker 1: I still have her earliest texts, you taste like butter
Speaker 1: and disaster. I approve food is just the most obvious
Speaker 1: layer at the ritual we used to disguise the ways
Speaker 1: we're not perfect. Sunday mornings, we'd walk to the market together,
Speaker 1: Laura dotting between stalls, waving bunches of mint of purple
Speaker 1: potatoes at me, chattering about what she could make if
Speaker 1: she just had one more hour in the morning. I
Speaker 1: handled the coffee, she chose the bread. We'd always buy
Speaker 1: one word cheese. After dinner, she'd pull out fail Chief
Speaker 1: from her testing fridge and we'd disect them between SIPs
Speaker 1: of lukewarm wine. Our friends from the art seen Brian
Speaker 1: little drifting in and out, filling our mudroom with stained
Speaker 1: aprons and bottle corks. Money was the last thing we
Speaker 1: talked about and the first thing to catch fire. When
Speaker 1: she almost lost a bakery two years ago. There was
Speaker 1: a stress between us. No sugar coed coat. Her parents
Speaker 1: voted her until holiday sales pushed her back up of water.
Speaker 1: My design contracts would gush for months, then down near
Speaker 1: dry up over night. The week I burned out on
Speaker 1: logos for vape start up, Laura left me a single
Speaker 1: machrom beside the coffee pot rose water, which I hated.
Speaker 1: We have this dance, one person's hope the other's realism.
Speaker 1: We exchange which is which as needed. Her family visits
Speaker 1: in powerful spots. They blow through town, brimming with expectations
Speaker 1: and side eye criticisms of her flavor choices. I catch
Speaker 1: her crying quietly in the show after these, even when
Speaker 1: she doesn't want comfort. She always says the bakery defines
Speaker 1: her more than family ever could. But that's never the
Speaker 1: whole truth. At the shop, Brian is her back up,
Speaker 1: her partner in East, her confidant about the labor schedule,
Speaker 1: and with her chocolate pepcorn will sell outside of Brooklyn.
Speaker 1: Brian's got a gentleway about him, awkward around me for
Speaker 1: reasons I don't understand, but close to Laura in that
Speaker 1: particular work Marriageway Lussell from the wine's shop Two Doors
Speaker 1: Done brings over mislabeled cases for emergency pairings, which nearly
Speaker 1: always end in the three of them splitting a bottle
Speaker 1: in the bakery at closing. Laura and Lucill are notoriously
Speaker 1: competitive about wine education, and She's trivia knights with them
Speaker 1: are always loud, always memorable, sometimes ending in sleep of
Speaker 1: a laughter echoing down the hall. Laura's made a point
Speaker 1: of owning I suppose donesty in front of these friends.
Speaker 1: We only get one rule, No hiding, no drama, just real.
Speaker 1: It's charming, really how often she bows about us being
Speaker 1: the born couple who works like it's a badge, a
Speaker 1: trick to keep fate at ALM's length. But lately Laura
Speaker 1: hasn't been herself, or maybe that isn't quite right. She
Speaker 1: is herself, just more distant, the sharpness of her energy
Speaker 1: redirected somewhere out of sight. For the past few weeks,
Speaker 1: she's brought home an endless parade of elaborate and touched
Speaker 1: cakes and desserts. Sometimes opera cake, sometimes pistachio domes, match sponge,
Speaker 1: odd favors she's never made for me before. Always two slices,
Speaker 1: always pristine, no evidence she even sampled them herself. I
Speaker 1: stopped telling myself. She's just dressed, desting recipes. It's her thing.
Speaker 1: She always says failure. It's the only real teacher in peastry.
Speaker 1: But she's become increasingly tense, scrolling through her phone under
Speaker 1: the table, sometimes smiling at messages that never reach me,
Speaker 1: sometimes locking the screen when I entered the room. I
Speaker 1: remember the first night I caught her whispering in the bathroom,
Speaker 1: long after midnight. A door cracks so I could just
Speaker 1: see the shape of her in the mirror, laughing under
Speaker 1: her breath. When I asked, half conscious, she brushed it off.
Speaker 1: Supplied drama. Babe, Flower orders late, go back to bed.
Speaker 1: I try to let it go. I want to. Laura's
Speaker 1: dress is real, the kind of ty lip exhaustion that
Speaker 1: makes even grocery lists feel injurious. Still, I can't shake it.
Speaker 1: I start to catch myself inventing excuses for her, convincing
Speaker 1: myself as the pandemic, the economy, the baker's ours. But
Speaker 1: it isn't just that. It's still way she turns away
Speaker 1: when typing, the way she stiffened when I ask who
Speaker 1: she was on the phone with, and how she never
Speaker 1: actually sits down to be desert with me anymore. I
Speaker 1: read somewhere that jealousy isn't always about another person. Sometimes
Speaker 1: it's about fear of being left behind, of losing the
Speaker 1: routine that lets she believe you're needed. A week ago,
Speaker 1: I woke up at two a m. De Laura slipping
Speaker 1: back into bed, her hands cold, the far away look
Speaker 1: in her eyes lingering until morning. I pressed, talking too
Speaker 1: loudly about nothing, trying to anchor her. She mumbled something
Speaker 1: about an early dough delivery, rolled away from my arm,
Speaker 1: and pretended to sleep. I should confront her, that would
Speaker 1: be the honest thing, But I keep telling myself it
Speaker 1: will blow over, or I shall tell me if something's
Speaker 1: truly wrong. That were the couple with no secrets. It's
Speaker 1: easier to believe the rulenbrig. Maybe if I surprise her
Speaker 1: with coffee at the bakery. Everything will come back into focus.
Speaker 1: It's just after ten on a drizzly Thursday when I
Speaker 1: step into her bakery and announced cowdboard, cap in hand,
Speaker 1: hoping to catch her off God in a good way.
Speaker 1: Through the glass pane of the industrial kitchen door, I
Speaker 1: see Laura hunched over the prep table, laptop open ran
Speaker 1: at her side. There is no wild laughter, just low murmurs,
Speaker 1: quick glances at spreadsheet. When Laura looks up and sees me,
Speaker 1: her reaction could be relief, but it's not. Her eyes widen,
Speaker 1: flickering with a lawn before she paces on a brittle smile. Nick,
Speaker 1: what are you doing here? Her voice sings on, but
Speaker 1: her shoulders tents, hands fidgeting with her apron strings. Brought
Speaker 1: your coffee, I say, lightly, trying to force a mood
Speaker 1: that used to be natural. Thought you could use the caffeine.
Speaker 1: She steps into the front, shutting the kitchen door behind her.
Speaker 1: Thanks Love, I appreciate it, but I'm actually a little busy.
Speaker 1: Health inspector's coming in ten minutes. Sorry, can we take
Speaker 1: a rain check? She's gently hurting me backward, already glancing
Speaker 1: over her shoulder. Brian throws a quick wave. She doesn't
Speaker 1: introduce me. I feel out a place, like a client
Speaker 1: on the wrong work site. Outside, I check social media
Speaker 1: to kill time before heading home. That's when I see
Speaker 1: Lusel has tagged Laura at a bow. I know of
Speaker 1: the palette three blocks away. Captioned Pastry Queen's Unwined. The
Speaker 1: time samp is barely fifteen minutes ago. Laura who insisted
Speaker 1: she be tied up at the Vickery all night. The
Speaker 1: next night, where after a group one tasting organized by Lucile,
Speaker 1: there's Damien, the smooth talking chef few runs Verdigous, a
Speaker 1: restaurant down the street Laura's Viickery provides his dessert. Sometimes
Speaker 1: he's loud, magnetic, a little too touchy. Halfway through the
Speaker 1: third poor he leans in, raising his glass. He know
Speaker 1: Laura's got a double life most of you don't even
Speaker 1: know about. There are laughs all around. Lucill winks bry
Speaker 1: and avoids eye contact. Laura's looks twist into a forced smile.
Speaker 1: She shakes her head, but she doesn't refute it. Not really.
Speaker 1: Damien leans closer, mock whispers her baking is for more
Speaker 1: than just customers these days. The laughter is easier this time,
Speaker 1: but Laura's face, the tightness of her smile, the flush
Speaker 1: creeping up her neck catches me off. God. Later that night,
Speaker 1: when Laura hangs her coat, something thuds at her fee.
Speaker 1: I reach for it and a slip paper rectangle folds
Speaker 1: into my hand. Or receive for a bottle of MW
Speaker 1: salt A prize. You what I know? She's never brought
Speaker 1: home the day. Two nights ago, the same evening, I
Speaker 1: remember eating Peet's alone law texting she be late, chasing
Speaker 1: Invasis new wine for the cafe, I ask, holding up
Speaker 1: the receipt. She barely glances, pulls off her shoes. Yeah,
Speaker 1: Halusa wanted some ideas for repairing. Ye know how she
Speaker 1: is funny. It's not on the wine wall. Laura shrugs,
Speaker 1: slips into the bath room door, clicking shirt in my face.
Speaker 1: I put the receipt away, careful not to crumple everything
Speaker 1: in night chest feels thin like tissue crumpled by handling.
Speaker 1: That week end, I wake and pull on my jacket
Speaker 1: for our regular Sunday market run. Laura is still under
Speaker 1: the covers, hair tangled, ice, ringed with fatigue. Come we
Speaker 1: skip to day, she mumbles, I'm dead bakery wipe me out.
Speaker 1: I nod had my disappointment, but later, whilst growing my
Speaker 1: feet in the kitchen, a Spotlessel's Instagraun's story is selfie
Speaker 1: with Bryan and a crowd outside to bakery. The caption
Speaker 1: brunch run closed doors but open hearts. It's timestamp for
Speaker 1: ten thirty am, the very hour we would have been
Speaker 1: at the market. The bakery closed, Laura sleep. Brian, when
Speaker 1: I see him days later, has gone oddly salad around me,
Speaker 1: no inside jokes, no wine wrecks, nothing beyond kurt nods
Speaker 1: and mourning nick I catch him one's trailing after Laura
Speaker 1: with a clipboard, and when our ads meet has now
Speaker 1: clamped shut, face flushing. It's as if we're both afraid
Speaker 1: to admit we know more than we let on. The
Speaker 1: next puzzle piece clicks into place on the night when
Speaker 1: Laura leaves her laptop open, locked into the Bakeri's internal account.
Speaker 1: I don't mean to snoop, but the apting's and notification
Speaker 1: a direct message. I have herneer this screen then shame
Speaker 1: burning hot click ones. Most of the messages are dulled invisses,
Speaker 1: recipe ideas, Bryan asking about proofing times but a string
Speaker 1: of messages with Damien stands out. Some are routine schedule changes,
Speaker 1: payment reminders. Others veery into the personal. They night banter
Speaker 1: about saving you, the last piece of Tonight's secret experiment,
Speaker 1: inside jokes about cake emergencies, photos of wine bottles with
Speaker 1: winking face emogies. Nothing graphic, but it's the tone, the time,
Speaker 1: sen nearing midnight, the intimacy of the shorthand later, trying
Speaker 1: to steady myself. I mention the wine tasting to Lucia.
Speaker 1: She's friendly, but her bright eyes dart away. Ooh, it
Speaker 1: was fun, she says, then immediately pivots the conversation, asking
Speaker 1: about my art commissions. When eppress is gently, she grins.
Speaker 1: Laura's dresses legendary, you know, but we all have to
Speaker 1: blow off steam. By the time Sunday rolls around again,
Speaker 1: I'm roll from overthinking. I sit in my studio tablet
Speaker 1: open a half in its logo, starying back at me
Speaker 1: twenty minutes past before I realize I'm just redrawing circles
Speaker 1: my thoughts. Oil and tangle. Was Laura hiding out with Damien.
Speaker 1: It's Brian covering for her. Am I inventing a story
Speaker 1: to fill the growing quiet in our apartment. Determine to
Speaker 1: break the spiral. I try something old fashioned, planning a
Speaker 1: dinner for us at the same cozy cafe where we
Speaker 1: had our first date. I make the call, reserve the
Speaker 1: window booth, Tell Laura, no work talk, no bakery phone,
Speaker 1: just as she looks surprised to genuinely taken aback, but agrees.
Speaker 1: The night of, she dresses up, hair loose, eyes brighter
Speaker 1: than in weeks of a glass shaded candle light. She hesitates,
Speaker 1: then opens up about the bakery, how competition's crushing, how
Speaker 1: she worries she doesn't have another reinvention in her Her
Speaker 1: voice cracks not in self pity but naked exhaustion. She
Speaker 1: admits she's been afraid that the numbers haven't mashed, her ambition,
Speaker 1: that she's hidden her panic from me. I didn't want
Speaker 1: to worry you, she says, squeezing my hand. You already
Speaker 1: carry so much. I couldn't put that weight on you.
Speaker 1: I feel the tension slip away. For a moment, we
Speaker 1: find the old warmth, laughing over failed desserts and awkward
Speaker 1: frost kisses. She apologizes for being distant, promises to do better,
Speaker 1: insists there's nothing I need to fix. We split a
Speaker 1: molten chocolate kick, her choice, not mine, but I let
Speaker 1: her take the last bite, sivering the sense that we're
Speaker 1: surviving the hard season together. Later, at home, with Laura
Speaker 1: already asleep, I notice her laptop open again. I close
Speaker 1: it for her, but an email pops up, a Venmo notification.
Speaker 1: It isn't totally my business, but if we're being honest,
Speaker 1: if they're really are no secrets, then wide a steady
Speaker 1: back and forth, payments with Damien, why cake and wine
Speaker 1: emoji's send in the dead of night, with mummos like
Speaker 1: a taste test, or just thanks. Each extremee is small,
Speaker 1: but together the relief from early disintegrates. I want to
Speaker 1: believe these are just professional favors. But the casual intimacy,
Speaker 1: the absence of money going the other way, the wings,
Speaker 1: they punch a hole in the comfort I just rebuilt.
Speaker 1: Everything sharpens, brightens, the ease of the night. The warmth
Speaker 1: of her apology feels like a story designed to settle me.
Speaker 1: I want to confront her immediately. Instead, I sit in
Speaker 1: the dark, lopped up screen, bleeding blue into my face,
Speaker 1: my own reflection walked in the glass, I tell myself,
Speaker 1: one more night, one more piece of proof, and then
Speaker 1: I'll know if I'm the villain or if something really
Speaker 1: has slipt too far from no secrets to save us.
Speaker 1: The next morning, I ask, Hey, what's Damian like when
Speaker 1: the shops close. Laura looks up from her phone, masking
Speaker 1: her emotions expertly. Just another Sioux chef with too much time,
Speaker 1: she says, joking, too breezy. He helps me brains from pairings.
Speaker 1: There's a festival coming, I thought you saw the flyers. Later,
Speaker 1: scrolling through her Bakeri's Instagram, which I rarely check, I
Speaker 1: noticed all frequent stories from Damien's restaurant. Styllized dessert shots,
Speaker 1: always tagged with vague captions like special colab night or
Speaker 1: are inspired by great Company. I know Laura's haund trading
Speaker 1: by now, even in digital text overlays. She never credits
Speaker 1: Vertigorous directly. But if you know the wallpaper, the cutlery,
Speaker 1: you know it starts raining at noon, a fine silver
Speaker 1: mist that makes our street lit blow rate half formed.
Speaker 1: I decide to walk down past the bakery after closing,
Speaker 1: just on the pretense of waving through the window or
Speaker 1: picking up a baguette. The lights are low. Inside I
Speaker 1: see two silowatts. Laura head down, slumped with exhaustion, but laughing,
Speaker 1: alive in a wish. She isn't at home lately. The
Speaker 1: immense it's close, clearly sharing a bottle of that same usault.
Speaker 1: Their smiles are slow, private, her hand lingers too long
Speaker 1: around her glass. Something about their easy and intimacy with
Speaker 1: no audience makes me freeze. I back away, unseen Paulstraw,
Speaker 1: being with the certainty of being unwelcome in a world
Speaker 1: that was supposed to be half mine. The next morning,
Speaker 1: Brian passes me in the alley behind the bakery. I
Speaker 1: intercept him, my words tripping over adrenaline. Here's something going
Speaker 1: on I should know about, I ask, blunt, not hiding
Speaker 1: the tremor in my voice. He hesitates by his lip,
Speaker 1: eyes darting over my shoulder as if looking for escape. Finally,
Speaker 1: he says, I Laura and Damien they've gotten close. That's
Speaker 1: all I know. He's careful, measured, like some one reciting
Speaker 1: a warning memorized under pressure. I pause, close like friends.
Speaker 1: Brian shrugues, noncommittal, cautious. I don't get between people, Nick,
Speaker 1: but I don't think it's only about food. The tip
Speaker 1: of my tone aches with things I've wanted to say
Speaker 1: for weeks, but they have our unspoken Brian SLINKs away,
Speaker 1: his hesitation a confirmation, screaming louder than any omission. Back
Speaker 1: home before sunrise, Laura picks a fight out of nowhere.
Speaker 1: She accuses me of being negative, difficult to talk to you.
Speaker 1: Arms crossed, gaze hard. You're so checked out lately, it's
Speaker 1: like you don't even care what I'm building. I care,
Speaker 1: but you won't talk to me, I reply, bewildered. She
Speaker 1: shakes her head. You don't get it. I'm holding everything
Speaker 1: up alone. Might as well be living with a roommate,
Speaker 1: not a partner. It stings, not only for what she's implying,
Speaker 1: but for how backward it feels. I want to scream
Speaker 1: at her fer inverting the story. Instead, I leave the room.
Speaker 1: My head's bins. If she were innocent, if she was
Speaker 1: just struggling with work, wouldn't she want me closer, wouldn't
Speaker 1: she ask me to help with her supposedly crushing burdens.
Speaker 1: On nimpulse, I open our joint bank account, feeling both
Speaker 1: guilty and justified. There it is studied. He am withdrawals
Speaker 1: into bakery's neighborhood. Half all late at night, increment's write
Speaker 1: for a dinner or round of drinks. Laura never mentions these,
Speaker 1: and the bakery's cash flow is supposedly threadbare. Lucill corners
Speaker 1: me a week later, outside her story, rare moment away
Speaker 1: from Laura or the others. She studies me, her voice low,
Speaker 1: you doing okay? I hesitate, covering my shake with a
Speaker 1: joke about freelance dead lines. She gives a look that
Speaker 1: slices dribble, should quiet, concerned. The law's been off stressed,
Speaker 1: But there's more to it than just numbers. Nick Her
Speaker 1: words are careful, her eyes apologetic. Dean know something, she sighs,
Speaker 1: glancing back toward the bakery. I wish I did. Just
Speaker 1: don't take everything at face value and take care of yourself. Okay,
Speaker 1: she's not the only one who matters. I wander back
Speaker 1: to the apartment, Lusio's words bouncing in my head. The
Speaker 1: gravel of it all begins to ground out my nerves.
Speaker 1: I start sifting through old digital messages, looking for what
Speaker 1: I don't know, a bread combe at earlier moment I missed.
Speaker 1: I find it eventually a message from Laura to loose
Speaker 1: Alp buried three months back. The subject line is just
Speaker 1: a cakemoji. The body reads, Lately, I just feel invisible,
Speaker 1: like I could vanish at home and no one would
Speaker 1: really notice, as this all there is. I don't want
Speaker 1: to sound ungrateful, but sometimes I wish I might have
Speaker 1: more somewhere someone. It was sent the night after an
Speaker 1: argument I barely remember something about my freelance schedule, a
Speaker 1: deadline run long. Laura had retreated, quietly said she was
Speaker 1: tired and I'd let it go, never seeing her face
Speaker 1: as she curled on the couch. Suddenly the pattern is inescapable,
Speaker 1: then touch desserts, the secretive moodiness, the venmox exchanges, the
Speaker 1: laughter dial down in public only to rise in private,
Speaker 1: the wild eyed energy when the world isn't looking. Damien
Speaker 1: is more than a friendly chef, more than a professional collaborator.
Speaker 1: The secrecy isn't about pride, whether bakery or my suppose neglect.
Speaker 1: It's about needing something, attention, validation, excitement that I either
Speaker 1: can't give or fail to notice. She's started kneeding elsewhere.
Speaker 1: I close the laptop, hard pounding the apartment is full
Speaker 1: of all the life and love we'd built, yet now
Speaker 1: it feels staged, rented for the first time. I'm not
Speaker 1: hoping to be wrong. I'm hoping, if I'm right, that
Speaker 1: I still have the nerve to do what comes next.
Speaker 1: It doesn't happen all at once, but lutches tiny reversals,
Speaker 1: moments where I want to trust the simplest explanation, only
Speaker 1: for some new detail to climb against it, reverberating in
Speaker 1: the space between us. That night, as o'er hums distractedly
Speaker 1: through her skin care routine in the bathroom, I find
Speaker 1: myself cleaning up a half finished dinner. The leftover curry
Speaker 1: coats the pop perfectly and touched since I set the spoon.
Speaker 1: Dent to answer a text from a client. She barely ate,
Speaker 1: blaming her nerves for killing her appetite. She's been pacing
Speaker 1: all night, fiddling with her wedding band, sitting and resetting
Speaker 1: her phone to silent. It's as if she's always waiting
Speaker 1: for something to happen that isn't me. I say good night,
Speaker 1: she mumbles it back. I watch the phone screen light
Speaker 1: up as she slides under the comforter. She types something quickly,
Speaker 1: then flicks her phone face down. On the night's end,
Speaker 1: I hear the faint ping of an incoming reply, muffled
Speaker 1: on a pillows. Ignored, Laura turns away a souluet sharp
Speaker 1: against a soft light from the hallway. I press the
Speaker 1: urge to ask, who are you texting at mine? But
Speaker 1: I know how it will land, like an accusation, a
Speaker 1: betrayal of trust neither of us has put into words yet.
Speaker 1: So I close my eyes and try to dream about
Speaker 1: something neutral, something before no secrets became madare a few
Speaker 1: days pass, I pitch a new logo concept, try to
Speaker 1: lose myself in limoc and color, but nothing lands. Laura's
Speaker 1: mood cycles faster now. Some mornings she's reckless and chatty,
Speaker 1: teasing me about my pancake flipping technique, making jokes about
Speaker 1: early retirement of the bakery tanks. Other nights, she's short tempered,
Speaker 1: locked in her own world, already in pajamas before the
Speaker 1: sun has completely faded. In these moments, our apartment feels
Speaker 1: like a whistachan. She checks in, checks out, carries on
Speaker 1: invisible conversations through her phone, then disappears into twelve hour
Speaker 1: shifts and even longer silences. One evening on a whim,
Speaker 1: I dropped by verdigrous after a knotsply run, just to
Speaker 1: say hi to Damien and to get a sense of
Speaker 1: what Laura's world outside the bakery looks like. The restaurant
Speaker 1: is packed, smell of burnt butter and time. Pressing out
Speaker 1: into the street, I catch Damien behind the bar, sleeves
Speaker 1: roll dashing a line of bitters across a coot glass.
Speaker 1: He spots me before I can turn away. Nick. He
Speaker 1: calls grinning, big easy, the kind of effortless charm that
Speaker 1: floats over a crowd. Did Laura send you to call it?
Speaker 1: He checked my pastry theft. Why are you uniting as
Speaker 1: a food critic? Neither? I grew in masking my discomfort
Speaker 1: with practice banter. Needed fresh air, thought i'd swing by.
Speaker 1: He slides a glass of my way apple brandy and
Speaker 1: something herrible on the house. Heard about your last logo,
Speaker 1: abstract fish right, the city's talking. I accept hands steady
Speaker 1: despite the low drone in my chest. Damien's gestures abroad,
Speaker 1: his humor public. But there's a way. He glances toward
Speaker 1: the kitchen door's expectant nervous, I see no sign of Laura, which,
Speaker 1: on balance releaves and disappoints me. He leans in, lowering
Speaker 1: his voice. She's working herself ragged ha, I nod. It
Speaker 1: comes and goes. She doesn't say much. Artists are the
Speaker 1: worst clients. Damien shrugs, then, observing me, drops the act.
Speaker 1: You two still doing Sunday markets miss The last couple
Speaker 1: were due for one. I make an effort to sound casual.
Speaker 1: Heath throws a knowing smile. God to protect the rituals
Speaker 1: or nothing sticks. He leaves it hanging, turning to another
Speaker 1: patron before I can answer. The walk home is cold.
Speaker 1: It's the kind of ordinary discomfort you invent meaningful when
Speaker 1: everything else feels unresolved. Another week slt by, crowded with
Speaker 1: small dramas. Laura and I share quick dinners grilled cheese
Speaker 1: one night, some geners lentilste the next, never upright fighting
Speaker 1: but never relaxing either. Her sleep is restless. She starts
Speaker 1: to nap on the couch, saying the bed feels too echoee.
Speaker 1: When I'm up working late one afternoon, I'm in the
Speaker 1: apartment fossing with a particularly finicky colored proof when I
Speaker 1: hear a soft chime from her phone left tucked under
Speaker 1: a dishop beside the sink. The screen lights up, Damien
Speaker 1: and boltecs a Cakeamoji, no preview, I freeze. I'm not
Speaker 1: an invader, not suppose it's new, but the image sticks
Speaker 1: in my mind. I busy myself for drawing, but I
Speaker 1: can't help glancing back every few minutes, willing myself not
Speaker 1: to unlock it. When Laura comes home, she's flush from
Speaker 1: the hair, flat from her wool cap. She kisses my
Speaker 1: head absently before reaching for her phone, shooting me a
Speaker 1: backward glance. Any drama while I was gone? She jokes,
Speaker 1: just a printer eating my proposal, the usual. Hey did
Speaker 1: you see this? I gesture to sketch on the kitchen table,
Speaker 1: trying to reassert some kind of intimacy. She looks, nods,
Speaker 1: and then leans in, but her attention is fleeting. She
Speaker 1: scrolls her phone out of view, murmuring something about a
Speaker 1: baker group chat as she steps into the hall. That night,
Speaker 1: she picks at dinner, offers to do dishes, and spends
Speaker 1: forty minutes tidying the spice cabinet, something I've never seen
Speaker 1: her do in seven years. When she tries to cuddle
Speaker 1: on the couch. I wrap my arm around her, but
Speaker 1: she's tense, minds somewhere else. Later, as we get ready
Speaker 1: for bed, she asks, when's your next client deadline? Anyway?
Speaker 1: Her tone is careful, almost rehearsed. Do you need me
Speaker 1: to keep things extra quiet tomorrow? I shake my head. No,
Speaker 1: it's not a big deal. I might actually swing out
Speaker 1: for drinks with own. Haven't caught up in a while.
Speaker 1: She feigns enthusiasm. That's great. I'll be at the bakery
Speaker 1: late doing inventory with Brian, probably a super glamorous night
Speaker 1: of unlabeled flower bins and passive aggressive fender emails. We
Speaker 1: both laugh for a second. I even believe it. The
Speaker 1: next afternoon, owing conseils, so I settle for bad beer
Speaker 1: and a decent sandwich at the corner bar. Restless, I
Speaker 1: decide to swing by the bakery on my way home,
Speaker 1: just to say hi. The lights are on, the windows,
Speaker 1: steamy through the glass. I see Brian alone in the
Speaker 1: prep area, your funds in hands, deep indow, no sign
Speaker 1: of Laura. I push open the door a jangle. Brian
Speaker 1: looks up, startled, then masks it Hey, Nick looking for Laura.
Speaker 1: Just wanted to say hi. She said you two would
Speaker 1: be working late. Brian shakes flower from his hands. She
Speaker 1: ran out for elseplies should be back soon. The air
Speaker 1: between us is thick. Brian's a steady guy, not an improviser.
Speaker 1: I sense there's more he isn't saying, but he buries
Speaker 1: himself in kneading, shoulders hunched. Do you need a hand,
Speaker 1: I've got idle thumbs, I joke, trying to craft attention.
Speaker 1: He grins tight. Naw, man, it's a one person door
Speaker 1: right now. Thanks, though, after a pause, quietly, Laura's been
Speaker 1: a busy probably just decompressing. Try calling her. I try,
Speaker 1: but she doesn't pick up. I step back out into
Speaker 1: the chill letting. The bakery door swing shut, twin bells
Speaker 1: tinkling behind me, and settled in a way a cat explain.
Speaker 1: Three blocks later, I stop outside Lusa's wine shop. Her
Speaker 1: clothes sign is lopsided, but I see her inside, arranging
Speaker 1: a new display. When she lets me in, I have
Speaker 1: a bay counter. She unboxes an unfamiliar label. She flashes
Speaker 1: a smile, then narrows her eyes. You look like you
Speaker 1: haven't slept trouble with work. I nod, unsure how much
Speaker 1: to disclose freelance drama, and Laura's all over the place
Speaker 1: these days as a festival's dress. Or is everyone this
Speaker 1: tuned up? Lucill snorts, Your wife is never not stressed
Speaker 1: before a festival. She lowers her voice. You too good?
Speaker 1: The question is loaded. I hesitate, yeah, I think, just
Speaker 1: hard to keep pace with her mood swings lately reminds
Speaker 1: me of when the bakery almost closed. Lucill surveys me
Speaker 1: for a moment, then shrugs, She'll come through. She always does,
Speaker 1: give a space of never seen any one so loyal
Speaker 1: when she's not overwhelmed. I want to ask about Damien,
Speaker 1: but the words catch instead. Did lor try the musalt
Speaker 1: with you? A flash of something, evasion or embarrassments registers
Speaker 1: in Lucile's eyes. No, actually, she and Damien splitted after
Speaker 1: a late shift last week. Said it paired with the
Speaker 1: new mouse, I got the last paw. She changes the
Speaker 1: subject abruptly. Come taste the censorer. It'll go with anything
Speaker 1: you draw or cook. Accept a splash, smiling, but my
Speaker 1: mind is racing. All the lines are blurring now between
Speaker 1: professional and personal friends and confidants. I thank Lucille and
Speaker 1: retreat that taste taut and mineral on my tongue, hungry
Speaker 1: for something grinding. Walking home, I call Laura again, no answer.
Speaker 1: I text her hope purer Knight's going easier than mine.
Speaker 1: The reply comes ten minutes later, just inventory, Hell, home soon,
Speaker 1: miss you. I want to believe her. I want to
Speaker 1: shape the paranoia, to write off the late hours, the secrecy.
Speaker 1: The message is filled with emojis as nothing more than
Speaker 1: work bound, But every small evasion, every carefully curated answer compounds.
Speaker 1: A few nights later, Ohor comes home, spelling faintly of
Speaker 1: perfume and something herrible. She ducks into the bedroom to change,
Speaker 1: before settling beside me on the couch. How was inventory,
Speaker 1: I ask, flipping through streaming options as though the question
Speaker 1: is a placeholder. She stretches her neck, weary. Brian's a perfectionist.
Speaker 1: Found three bags of flour label zero that were actually
Speaker 1: bred flower. You would think the apocalypse had come. Something
Speaker 1: about the way she builds her story details but no
Speaker 1: feeling behind them, reminds me of my own white lives
Speaker 1: as a teenager. We should get away for a weekend
Speaker 1: when all this is over, I say, tentatively, go somewhere
Speaker 1: without dough ovens or emails for a second, her eyes flicker,
Speaker 1: then shut her Yeah, maybe when things calm down. Her
Speaker 1: phone vibrates. She glances at it from hovering and silence.
Speaker 1: Is it without looking at the screen. Let's just watch
Speaker 1: something super to night. My brain's gone to kick mush.
Speaker 1: She tucks herself under my arm, but she stays on
Speaker 1: her phone for most of the movie, like flashing on
Speaker 1: and off. Her laugh are delayed. I count thirty seven
Speaker 1: minutes before she looks up at the screen, but I
Speaker 1: never call her on it. This stack up like this,
Speaker 1: A little more evidence, a little more performance. The next afternoon,
Speaker 1: after Laura lease for an impromptu wine pairing brainsawm, I
Speaker 1: noticed she left her laptop open again. Looked into the
Speaker 1: bakery account. I tell myself, just closing windows. But as
Speaker 1: the curser hoves a new notification pops up another vemo payment.
Speaker 1: Damiens I come twin with a cartoon cake. The memo
Speaker 1: says to his test time stamp well after midnight the
Speaker 1: night before, there are several always in twenty or thirty
Speaker 1: dollars increments. Nothing that screams extravagance, but too tidy to
Speaker 1: be random. I check the bakeries Instagram again, this time
Speaker 1: searching for collaborators. There are a dozen tagged photos from
Speaker 1: Verdigris with captions like inspired by the Best Company or
Speaker 1: Chris Blay's for Secret Friends. The tags are coy, almost mocking.
Speaker 1: If I didn't know Laura's voice so well, I'd think
Speaker 1: nothing of it. For days, I try to rationalize, maybe
Speaker 1: this is what partnership looks like, inside jokes, late payments,
Speaker 1: creative crushes. But there's a sense I am being staged
Speaker 1: out of the frame, made an audience member in my
Speaker 1: own life. I don't remember the last time Laura asked
Speaker 1: my opinion on a new dessert or texted me to
Speaker 1: say she burned a batch. Instead, I find her talking
Speaker 1: in riddles, referencing collaborations. She won't name stories half finished
Speaker 1: and cut off with a laugh. When I press, she deflects,
Speaker 1: turning questions into drugs. Are asking about my clients instead.
Speaker 1: One Wednesday, I decide to test her. Do you want
Speaker 1: me to come to the wine pairings to night? I
Speaker 1: could photograph some of the desserts for the website. She
Speaker 1: looks at me, startled, then quickly says, you be so bored.
Speaker 1: Love is just applying networking and loose a lecturing us
Speaker 1: on bottle lineach rangeek for something spicy, I promise, I nod,
Speaker 1: but the exchange felt too rehearsed, as if she'd already
Speaker 1: anticipated the ask. That night, pacing in the apartment, I
Speaker 1: try calling out and then Lucile, craving any excuse to
Speaker 1: occupy my mind. Both go to voicemail. After midnight, I
Speaker 1: take a war habit, returning to our old market route
Speaker 1: Circular Imus. About half way around the block, I see
Speaker 1: the lights still on in the bakery. This late, the
Speaker 1: streets empty except for single right chair idling at the curb.
Speaker 1: I keep to the shadowed side, not really intending to spy,
Speaker 1: just needing to see something true, a cash only a
Speaker 1: glimpse through the open staff entrance. Laura turned toward Damien,
Speaker 1: both perched on dough bins, an mptwo wine bottle between them.
Speaker 1: They're laughing, shoulders almost touching. She places something a fork,
Speaker 1: maybe delicately, in his hand, their laughter muted private. It's
Speaker 1: not evidence in the legal sense, but something brittle inside
Speaker 1: me gives I double back boots graping the curb and
Speaker 1: realize my breathing is so ragged at clouds in the street,
Speaker 1: laid are I tax Laura headed to bed, love you
Speaker 1: no reply. I don't sleep until past three. Laura slips
Speaker 1: in quietly beside me an hour later, the faint scent
Speaker 1: of wine and vanilla trailing her of a skin cool.
Speaker 1: When I wake, she's up first, humming off key in
Speaker 1: the kitchen, but her voice is brittle. I watch her
Speaker 1: from the doorway, considering every option. Do I confront her?
Speaker 1: Do mend honesty? For tend nothing is wrong? As a test,
Speaker 1: My throat is dry, my mind to have of unfinished thoughts.
Speaker 1: She senses me in, turns, smile, manufactured morning coffee. I accept,
Speaker 1: watching as she moves through the ritual coffee, scoop, water erperus.
Speaker 1: Everything familiar yet wrong in a small crucial way, as
Speaker 1: if the choreography is changed but the music has stayed
Speaker 1: the same. I meet Brian the afternoon under the pretense
Speaker 1: of an art delivery. He's tense, avoiding eye contact. Hey,
Speaker 1: can I ask something I say more direct than planned?
Speaker 1: Am I crazy to think something changed between Laura and Damien.
Speaker 1: Brian pins his mouth shut, looks away. Laura's she's really
Speaker 1: under pressure neck. Damien's just around more that's it. Is
Speaker 1: that really it? He's silent. Jill working then whispers you
Speaker 1: should talk to her, not me, Brian, Are you covering
Speaker 1: for her? His face flushes. I'm not covering for anyone.
Speaker 1: I just work here. I let him off the hook,
Speaker 1: but his reluctance sits heavy. A home are joined, A
Speaker 1: count mocks me. Another withdrawal in the bakery's neighborhood after midnight.
Speaker 1: Not enough to bankrupt, It's just enough that, piece by piece,
Speaker 1: the unexpected is becoming routine. When Laura finally comes home
Speaker 1: that night, she throws her back on the floor and
Speaker 1: collapse on the couch. She smells of toasted sugar and sweat.
Speaker 1: I sit beside her, silent. She tucks her feet under herself,
Speaker 1: scrolling without looking up. You seem exhausted, I say, searching
Speaker 1: for some throat of care. Do you want to talk
Speaker 1: about it? She shokes, scrolling faster. I'm fine, it's nothing new.
Speaker 1: I almost ask directly, almost instead a mumble. Seems like
Speaker 1: we barely see each other. There's a flush of something,
Speaker 1: remorse or irritation. I can't tell. She sets her phone
Speaker 1: down at last. I'm sorry, I know it's been rough.
Speaker 1: If I just can't talk about work right now. That's
Speaker 1: all I have to hold onto. We sit together, not
Speaker 1: speaking for ten minutes before she gets up again, going
Speaker 1: to shower. You need anything, No, I'll clean up. She
Speaker 1: disappears into the bathroom, the click of the lock disproportionately loud. Later,
Speaker 1: I hear her on the phone, voice urgent, laughter spiking.
Speaker 1: When she emerges, her as are bright. Brian's mom is sick,
Speaker 1: she says, too quickly, just wanted to check in on him.
Speaker 1: I don't believe her. I don't know why I ever did.
Speaker 1: There's no crash, no dramatic break, just as slow, inexorable slide.
Speaker 1: A coffee cup stacked here at a time in the
Speaker 1: sink receives my greeting from pocket to purse to trash,
Speaker 1: our conversation shrinking to logistics accounts. One morning, after another
Speaker 1: night spent twisting in sheets alone, I gather myself and
Speaker 1: break out a fall routine. Laura, can we take a
Speaker 1: night out, just the two of us, No faults, no
Speaker 1: bakery talk, just us. She hesitates, then relents, Yeah, mebe
Speaker 1: at that cafe we used to go to. The next night,
Speaker 1: she dresses carefully. She even puts on the ear rings
Speaker 1: I bought her for our third anniversary, the fill greed
Speaker 1: ones with the tiny gold spoons. We walk to the cafe,
Speaker 1: small talk only, but the mood is not hopeless. Candle
Speaker 1: light flickers between us. She lets her hand rest on
Speaker 1: mine across the table. Between SIPs of wine, she admits haldingly,
Speaker 1: I fell trapped, not by you, just by everything, Like
Speaker 1: if the bakery goes under, I go under. I didn't
Speaker 1: want you to worry with me. Her eyes shimmer, not
Speaker 1: quite tears, but not dry either. I want to help,
Speaker 1: I say. Her hand tightens on mine. I know. I
Speaker 1: just didn't want to lose both us in the bakery
Speaker 1: by making it your problem. We talk long past dessert,
Speaker 1: using the old coat of gentle teasing and awkward honesty.
Speaker 1: For a moment, I believe we could recover this, the
Speaker 1: ritual of honesty knitted back together by Iam and care.
Speaker 1: But the next morning, her phone buzzes with two notifications
Speaker 1: before she's even out of bed. She glances at them,
Speaker 1: face clouded, screen angled away. That afternoon, she leaves her
Speaker 1: laptop open again. I almost don't look pride or respect inertia,
Speaker 1: but it dings Fermo from Damien Kike emoji. Another outflow
Speaker 1: an hour later, this time labeled a late night test run,
Speaker 1: coupled with an empty wine bottle emoji. I sit down
Speaker 1: hard and stare at the spreadsheet detailing bakery expenses. If
Speaker 1: there's a code here, I can't crack it. The pattern
Speaker 1: is clear, late night payments, secretive messages, and side jokes
Speaker 1: that only read is innocent from a distance. My body
Speaker 1: goes cold. My mind catalogs each moment. The market runs skipped,
Speaker 1: the laughter defer, the easy intimacy between Laura and Damien.
Speaker 1: In the kitchen, Bryan's tight lift answers Lucil's evasions, the receipts,
Speaker 1: the bank withdraws, the unchair deserts, always two slices, never
Speaker 1: touched together. I feel foolish for all I supposed inside.
Speaker 1: I miss what was happening right in front of me.
Speaker 1: The next evening, I wait, I test how it eels
Speaker 1: to be silent, letting her come to me. She bustles
Speaker 1: and late cheeks flushed. Sorry, last minute problem with the
Speaker 1: walk in. Brian almost lost it on the supplier. She
Speaker 1: talks fast, busying herself with keys mail anything. I watch her,
Speaker 1: and in that moment, the question forms again and again.
Speaker 1: Are you going to lie to me to night too?
Speaker 1: Or Am I too cowardly to force the answer? But
Speaker 1: I don't ask, not yet. Instead I clear the dishes,
Speaker 1: water the plant she's forgotten again, and lay awake, listening
Speaker 1: to the shower run. I know too much and not
Speaker 1: nearly enough. All I have left is time and the
Speaker 1: uncomfortable certainty that I can't pretend for ever I move through.
Speaker 1: The rest of that night is of my feet. I
Speaker 1: lushed to the floor. Every sound in the apartment, sudden
Speaker 1: and sharp. Laura's shower shuts off, the thud of her towel,
Speaker 1: the faint creak of our mattress as she settles under
Speaker 1: the covers, every detail pressed into my nerves. I lie awake,
Speaker 1: chest heavy as wide, staring into the watery orange pattern
Speaker 1: of city lights on our ceiling. I do not touch her,
Speaker 1: do not lean close as I once did, afraid that
Speaker 1: even the brush of my arm might ignite something irretrievable.
Speaker 1: In the morning, Laura is already dressed. She stands by
Speaker 1: the window with her phone in one hand, messenger back
Speaker 1: hung unevenly from one's shoulder, mouthing responses to some text.
Speaker 1: I can't see. There's no anniversary of this tension, No
Speaker 1: data cannetches its origin, but there's no mistaking it now.
Speaker 1: The air around us as dance with the expectation of collapse.
Speaker 1: You want coffee, I ask thin they She hesitates, then
Speaker 1: shakes her head. I need to get in early. Brian
Speaker 1: can't open alone any more, not for inventory. Her attempt
Speaker 1: at casualness doesn't land. She doesn't meet my eyes. I
Speaker 1: not pretending I believe her. I eat breakfast alone, scraping
Speaker 1: dry toast over the sink. Sometimes I takes her good luck,
Speaker 1: a quick joke, something to anchor us to day. I
Speaker 1: just watched the screen empty except for a flurry of
Speaker 1: bakery group jat notifications and a single Kke emoji from
Speaker 1: Damien popping up behind a lock screen. I probably shouldn't
Speaker 1: have glanced at. I try to work, but nothing moves.
Speaker 1: My style is glides uselessly across the tablet lines, bleeding
Speaker 1: into indecision. The apartment is a mausoleum of shared projects
Speaker 1: are at half finished, party invitations and tat from the
Speaker 1: court board, even an unopened year olgurt. Laura had promised
Speaker 1: to a doctor with vanilla beIN's last week forgotten. Now
Speaker 1: every object carries the echo of us, but now each
Speaker 1: one carries a seam ready to split. I mid afternoon,
Speaker 1: the anxiety boils up into action. I send on a message,
Speaker 1: no response yet, but it makes me feel less alone.
Speaker 1: I force myself outside, walk the neighborhood in the bridle wind,
Speaker 1: passing Losel's shop. She waves from inside, but I don't
Speaker 1: go in. On my way back, I catch a reflection
Speaker 1: two people in the bakery's window, Laura and Damien, standing
Speaker 1: too close. Her hand gestures animatedly as she laughs, her
Speaker 1: posture unlocked and burdened. He leans in to say something,
Speaker 1: and she touches his wrist, only for a moment. But
Speaker 1: I see it. I could photograph at bottle it you,
Speaker 1: says proof. Back home, the taste of bitterness crowds my mouth.
Speaker 1: I can't avoid the truth any longer. The small lacks,
Speaker 1: Miss dinners, the softness in her voice for some one
Speaker 1: who isn't me. The daily withdrawal of affection have congealed
Speaker 1: into something immovable. I pace. I try to write a message,
Speaker 1: then delete it. There should be some ritual to grief,
Speaker 1: but here it's all improvisation. Afternoon darkens into evening as too,
Speaker 1: phone clenched in my hand like a compass with azinorth,
Speaker 1: I won't catch her in a lie by accident to night.
Speaker 1: I know the next step must be deliberate. I wait
Speaker 1: until late after eleven, until the apartment lights have bung
Speaker 1: golden and soft, the hour when true starts to leak
Speaker 1: from every shadow. I hear the elevator creek, the familiar
Speaker 1: jangle of Laura's keys at the door. She moves quietly.
Speaker 1: May be thinking, Emma sleep. There's a carefulness to a
Speaker 1: posture as she shrugs off her coat, checks her phone
Speaker 1: one last time, and sets her back down. Just so
Speaker 1: I clear my throw from the living room. He startles, turns,
Speaker 1: tries on a smile that cracks of the corners. Hey
Speaker 1: didn't mean to wake you. I just lost track of time.
Speaker 1: Closing up and a I don't let her finish. My
Speaker 1: own voice sounds thin, too rehearsed. We need to talk.
Speaker 1: She stands in the doorway, uncertain, barely inside our home
Speaker 1: right now? Yes. I pushed to my feet, suddenly aware
Speaker 1: of how small our apartment is, how little room there
Speaker 1: is now for anything but this. My chest is tight
Speaker 1: a rubber band pulled close to breaking. Laura hovers at
Speaker 1: the edge of the entryway, hands curled around the strap
Speaker 1: of her bag. Tension in her body says She's been
Speaker 1: bracing for this longer than I have. What's going on,
Speaker 1: she finally asks, but her voice is shy of real curiosity.
Speaker 1: I keep my eyes on hers. Are you happy, Laura?
Speaker 1: Is there something you haven't been telling me? She falters, nick,
Speaker 1: don't do this now, please, I'm exhausted, added, are you?
Speaker 1: I gesture, not trusting my hands to be steady, exhausted
Speaker 1: or just tired of pretending nothing's wrong. The silence is
Speaker 1: nearly physical. Her breathing cookings, I'm not pretending anything. I
Speaker 1: watch weighing, how direct to be? All the fragments swirl,
Speaker 1: the late night vemmo payments, inside jokes, Brune's hedging, Lisa's
Speaker 1: careful warnings, every unexplained wine bottle, all the tagged and
Speaker 1: tagged photos. Together, they're impossible to ignore. I know about
Speaker 1: the payments, Laura. I know about the messages sent about Damien.
Speaker 1: My voice cracks not with accusation, but with the wariness
Speaker 1: of some one who wants to be denied and isn't.
Speaker 1: She swallows, face switching between alarm and indignation. You through
Speaker 1: my accounts, don't twist this. I shoot back, sharper than
Speaker 1: I intended. I went looking because you push me out,
Speaker 1: because you stopped being here with me. All I wanted
Speaker 1: was an honest answer. She blinks, finally setting her bag down.
Speaker 1: But Demien is my friend, a collaborator. We've been working.
Speaker 1: I saw you together tonight at the bakery, laughing. He
Speaker 1: didn't see me, but I saw how you are with him.
Speaker 1: I can hear my own voice trembling now, rage and
Speaker 1: fear and small sick relief that I'm not crazy after all.
Speaker 1: Louis stands silent, Joe ridgard as glinting with panic. It's
Speaker 1: not what you think, then tell me what it is.
Speaker 1: For a moment, she battles herself, Then finally she sinks
Speaker 1: onto the arm of the couch, facing her hands. Her voice,
Speaker 1: when it comes is brutal. It started as work, he
Speaker 1: was encouraging. We'd stay late, trying things for the festival,
Speaker 1: and at first it was just fun, creative, and then
Speaker 1: it wasn't. She shakes her head. One night we stayed
Speaker 1: after everyone was gone. I did too much to drink.
Speaker 1: We it just happened. Afterward. I tried to end it,
Speaker 1: but the bakery. God, everything felt so hard, and I
Speaker 1: needed to feel like someone wanted me around. We kept talking,
Speaker 1: kept working. Late. My stomach sinks, a cold, slow motion collapse.
Speaker 1: How long she barely meets my gaze? Months since before,
Speaker 1: since winter? But we warn't it? Not every night that's
Speaker 1: supposed to help. She wiped it her face. No. I stare,
Speaker 1: knuckles whitening against the arm of the chair. Did you
Speaker 1: ever think you could just tell me? Was I someone
Speaker 1: it was worth telling the truth to? Laura Is crying,
Speaker 1: shoulders shaking. I couldn't. Every time I tried, you'd come
Speaker 1: and talking about a commission or brushing me off about
Speaker 1: the bakery, And all I could do was protect what
Speaker 1: I still had left with you. I leaned back, exhaustion
Speaker 1: rolling through me. You had me all this time? Did
Speaker 1: you want out? Was this just the excuse? Nough? She
Speaker 1: sudden Fearce was cracking. I didn't want out. I felt
Speaker 1: forgotten here invisible Danien made me feel seen again for
Speaker 1: the first time in months, maybe years. The sharpest and
Speaker 1: her voice breaks against her own guilt. We stare at
Speaker 1: each other across the coffee table, the gap between us
Speaker 1: whiter than ever. I can't must anger just to yawning
Speaker 1: hollow ache. So what now, I ask, voice gone dry?
Speaker 1: She shakes her head helpless. I don't know. I don't
Speaker 1: know what I want. I love you, Nick, but I
Speaker 1: don't know how to fix this. Do you love him?
Speaker 1: She covers her mouth folders. I don't know. Maybe everything
Speaker 1: feels broken now. The room swells with everything unspoken. There
Speaker 1: are no good answers left. We talk in fits and starts,
Speaker 1: the words circling through gilt, accusation, excuses, tears. I try
Speaker 1: to find where my responsibility begins, what moments I missed?
Speaker 1: What silence is I contributed? But there's no comfort in
Speaker 1: accounting for a breach this wide. Eventually there's nothing left
Speaker 1: but breathing lore culled on the arm of the couch,
Speaker 1: me perched by the window, city lights flickering on the glass.
Speaker 1: The truth sits between us, ugly and complete. When the
Speaker 1: sun adjustry the blinds a few hours later, I pack
Speaker 1: a bag, suret jeans, a bundle of socks, sketchuk heavns.
Speaker 1: I do it quietly, methodically, stomach nodded, lor sits on
Speaker 1: the bed as I zip the back, red eyed but silent.
Speaker 1: I can't be here, I say, not unkindly. She nods,
Speaker 1: voice small. I understand. She doesn't ask where I'm going.
Speaker 1: I send no in a text, need a place for
Speaker 1: a couple days. Can I crash? His reply comes after
Speaker 1: a minute, of course, come by whenever I leave my
Speaker 1: keys on the entry table next to Laura's bakery, ring
Speaker 1: out in the hallway, Laura doesn't follow. Our door clicks
Speaker 1: shut behind me, the smallest and final punctuation down the elevator,
Speaker 1: out to the street, heavy with morning breath, curling in
Speaker 1: the damp I don't look back at Owen's loft. The
Speaker 1: day passes and waves, emale pings. I mute messages from lor,
Speaker 1: ignore calls from Bryan and loosis up ring unanswered. I
Speaker 1: let the room be quiet. They ache spreads out. Then's
Speaker 1: dulls in snatches are reaply what was said and un said,
Speaker 1: searching for different outcomes that don't exist. Laura takes the
Speaker 1: bakery Instagram offline. That afternoon, Lucill takes a simple thinking
Speaker 1: of vite and nothing more. The world declines to offer
Speaker 1: easy closure, though our emails errands even a peter box
Speaker 1: o inslides into the room, mostly silent, mostly present. That evening,
Speaker 1: as darkness slips in, I sit by Owen's window, watching
Speaker 1: light spin on across the city, eat one, coul and unreachable. Now,
Speaker 1: as the oar is frayed into a thin, pale dawn,
Speaker 1: I side open the glass balcony door and step out
Speaker 1: the city, breathing quietly blur. I look east, half hoping,
Speaker 1: half drouting a message will come through, that Laura will
Speaker 1: call again, or I'll turn around and find her, silhouett
Speaker 1: in the glow, I grip the railing knuckles tight and
Speaker 1: let the cold wind sting my face. The all sweetness
Speaker 1: between us is lost, pressed into memory by the blunt
Speaker 1: taste of betrayal. The night air is roar and awake
Speaker 1: and honest. I fill my lungs, and after so many
Speaker 1: months doubting, I let in the stillness, knowing finally I
Speaker 1: am apart from her, and that some separations can't be
Speaker 1: sugared over. The wind bites at my face, the kind
Speaker 1: of cold that begs hute attention, And for a long
Speaker 1: time I just stand there, breeding in the edges of
Speaker 1: a city, slowly stirring beneath the blue gray haze. If
Speaker 1: I try hard enough, I can almost convince myself this
Speaker 1: is another early morning, before Laura, before bakeries, before any
Speaker 1: of the rituals we built to stave off loneliness. But
Speaker 1: no fantasy holds that long. My mind keeps circling, not
Speaker 1: even racing now, just harming, A steady low eke in
Speaker 1: a place whe or trust used to settle when no
Speaker 1: one rises, Padding into the kitchen, his eyes find me
Speaker 1: across the open space. He doesn't say much, he never
Speaker 1: did with real pain. Instead he slides me half a
Speaker 1: mug of burnt coffee, muttering, figured you'd want strong. I nod,
Speaker 1: let the bitterness line my throat. We don't talk about
Speaker 1: what happened. He makes small talk about dead lines, about
Speaker 1: a dumb show wan TV, all in a tone nus
Speaker 1: there if I need it, absent if I don't. He
Speaker 1: leaves for work, and I find myself wondering the unfamiliar
Speaker 1: holes of his apartment, picking up battered up books, peering
Speaker 1: at some one else's view. He'd think carbrike would be loud, desperate, dramatic,
Speaker 1: but it creeps instead, seats into the coroners, settling like
Speaker 1: fine dust. Everything looks exposed, excess daylight pouring over boxes
Speaker 1: and cables and forgotten mail, And for a second I
Speaker 1: want to laugh at how neatly life amputates you from
Speaker 1: one space to another, no matter how much you swear
Speaker 1: you'll drag your old comfort alone. My phone shudder is
Speaker 1: on the counter, vibrating urgently against the marble. I flinch
Speaker 1: and almost ignore it, but the notification glows persistent. Laura, another,
Speaker 1: then another. Umred texts stack up. Not angry, not pleading,
Speaker 1: just empty chair kinsatic with the weight of silence. Nick,
Speaker 1: please can we talk. I'm sorry. I just want to
Speaker 1: know you're safe. I'll give you space, Just let me
Speaker 1: know if you're okay. I never meant for it to
Speaker 1: go like this. I don't answer. Instead, I scroll to
Speaker 1: Lucio's message quiet, gentle, anything you need let me know,
Speaker 1: And then Bryan just an apology, no explanation, as if
Speaker 1: the very act of loyalty itself is its own kind
Speaker 1: of guilt. I have her over reply, consider sending a
Speaker 1: half joke, a lie about taking a little time to
Speaker 1: clear my head, but even that feels far away now.
Speaker 1: By mid morning, helpless under the inerte of doing nothing,
Speaker 1: I leave Owen's place and work. I looped the neighborhood
Speaker 1: several times, nowhere in particular, my phone silent in my pocket.
Speaker 1: Now it all looks different. Streets, Sharper Corner is wider,
Speaker 1: calf is that used to be thick with laughter now
Speaker 1: brittle in the late winter sun. Even Laura's bakery, when
Speaker 1: I pass by on the opposite side of the street,
Speaker 1: seems smaller, the windows a little fogged, closed for private events,
Speaker 1: golled in her looping skirt. I catch a shadow move inside,
Speaker 1: maybe Laura, maybe Brian. My chest constructed the thought of
Speaker 1: her sorting door or bottles alone head bout. I keep walking.
Speaker 1: Mid day, I find myself in the park, sitting on
Speaker 1: a cold bench with lust, falls, leaves rustling at my feet.
Speaker 1: When my phone vibrates again, I'm half a surprised to
Speaker 1: see it's Lucial calling, not Laura. For half a moment
Speaker 1: I consider letting it ring out, But some small, stubborn
Speaker 1: part of me needs to hear another real voice, naked Hey.
Speaker 1: Her tone is careful, gentle Hey. It's awkward, a kind
Speaker 1: of intimacy reserved for people who know part of your pain,
Speaker 1: but not all. Its counter you don't need to say anything,
Speaker 1: she says, after too long a pause. I just saw
Speaker 1: no things blue up. Laura isn't good at being alone.
Speaker 1: If you ever need a glass, or if you just
Speaker 1: want someone to walk, let me know. I'll keep my
Speaker 1: mouth shut or open if you want. All I manage
Speaker 1: is a muttered thanks Lucil and a long exhale. I
Speaker 1: picture her in her shops, leaves rolled high, ready to
Speaker 1: dissect joy or disaster with equal fervor. Look, I'm not
Speaker 1: taking side, but I do think. Whatever happens next, just
Speaker 1: remember we actually like the both of you. That's allowed.
Speaker 1: Don't let her pain poison your healing. Okay. The catch
Speaker 1: in her voice is and a chatter is the edge
Speaker 1: of my numness. For a few seconds, we say goodbye,
Speaker 1: no promises. I walk for hours after my feet hurt.
Speaker 1: I'm angry, then sad, then nothing. I replay every scene,
Speaker 1: each sign I missed, each conversation, I like gut out
Speaker 1: when I should have pushed harder or softer, or at all.
Speaker 1: The realization keeps hitting. There was nothing performative about the collapse.
Speaker 1: It was quiet, private, layers of small choices and evasions
Speaker 1: that built something unsustainable, even as we clung to the
Speaker 1: fiction of transparency. When I finally returned to Owens, my
Speaker 1: body aches. I am starved, but fruit feels obscene. Oh
Speaker 1: am left a note by the cattle. Nobody dies from
Speaker 1: one ruined week steel My tea will bring pets later.
Speaker 1: I try to smile. I almost succeed, but around for
Speaker 1: my phone buzzes again, this time an unknown number. For
Speaker 1: half a second, I imagine it's Damien, ready to defend
Speaker 1: his roll, or maybe Looseal calling from another poem. Worried,
Speaker 1: I'm screening her instead as a logistics call from a
Speaker 1: former client, a logo update, and the normalcy. If it
Speaker 1: feels obscene, like a stranger walking into the wrong funeral,
Speaker 1: I answer a professional polight. When I hang up, I
Speaker 1: realize I've spoken more words about color matching and vector
Speaker 1: paths today than about anything that actually matters. Late afternoon,
Speaker 1: another message from Laura. I'm heading to my moms for
Speaker 1: a week. I need to clear my head. If you
Speaker 1: want to talk, I'll make time. If not, I'm sorry
Speaker 1: for everything. Reading this, some hollow space in my chest crackles,
Speaker 1: not quite relief, not quite new pain. I wonder what
Speaker 1: her mother will say if the story will change, be
Speaker 1: retold as something briefer, easier to move beyond. I want
Speaker 1: to reply, don't put this all on your me alone,
Speaker 1: but my thumbs freeze. I swipe the whole conversation away.
Speaker 1: Pizza arrives, courtesy of Owen, who says nothing when he
Speaker 1: sees how little I've moved. He fills two wineglasses with
Speaker 1: grocery store cab and sits opposite me for in flicking
Speaker 1: through clips of a comedy show. It's the quietest kindness,
Speaker 1: no forced conversation, no advice, just someone willing to share
Speaker 1: space with you. In the aftermath, we eat in silence,
Speaker 1: but some time between slices two and three, something reanimates
Speaker 1: in my chest. May be its exhaustion, may be gratitude,
Speaker 1: but the relief of not having to pretend, even for
Speaker 1: soothes something raw. This is what real aftermath feels like.
Speaker 1: I think, not Catharsis, but just being present in a
Speaker 1: ruined place long enough for the noise to quiet down.
Speaker 1: After dinner, I finally switch my phone off completely, place
Speaker 1: it upside down on the counter. Owen's already heading for
Speaker 1: the shower, his movements careful practiced, a friend trained by
Speaker 1: years of knowing when to stay and when to fade
Speaker 1: out Owen in the open living room, I pull my
Speaker 1: sketch pick out of my back and stare at the
Speaker 1: first empty page. I make one line, then another, letting
Speaker 1: my mind drift. There's no bakery, no wine, parents, no shame,
Speaker 1: just space, just me and now passes in a haze.
Speaker 1: Graphite smug down my thumb, nothing conclusive appearing on the page.
Speaker 1: I don't care. Drawing is ritual, and not every ritual
Speaker 1: is about comfort to night. At least I can be
Speaker 1: the main character in my own head again. Later, I
Speaker 1: click on my music in hail the taste of cheap
Speaker 1: wine and stare out the window. Lights of the city
Speaker 1: coming alive. Laura is somewhere beyond those lights are hurt, separate,
Speaker 1: parallel and reachable. Now I hope she's safe, that she
Speaker 1: finds a kind of quiet she could with me. I
Speaker 1: want to write a message that there's no an evil
Speaker 1: and just two people running out of roar, but I
Speaker 1: already know it wouldn't make a difference. I let that
Speaker 1: silence settle, let the city move on without asking my permission.
Speaker 1: It's not the extravagant ending a guest at no blowed argument,
Speaker 1: no log a child into the street, no final monologue,
Speaker 1: just a slow, revocable change of a life cracking along
Speaker 1: as thinner seem. I flip off the light, letting the
Speaker 1: warm tangle through the apartment. Tomorrow will require decisions about leases,
Speaker 1: about accounts, about what happens to a future once imagined
Speaker 1: as indivisible to night. Though, I let myself exist in
Speaker 1: the quiet after math, not healed, not ruined, just new,
Speaker 1: And so as the city exhals with me, I stand
Speaker 1: again at the balcony glass, this time not searching for
Speaker 1: a blinking phone or loss silhouette, but simply watching the
Speaker 1: sky's shift. The well sweetness now is with a bitterness,
Speaker 1: both sharper and more honest than before. In this new silence,
Speaker 1: I let myself begin. No answers, no performance, nothing to
Speaker 1: forgive or to promise, just the truth, full and alive
Speaker 1: as day filled it slowly in. And that is the end.
Speaker 1: Thank you for listening, and I will see you in
Speaker 1: the next one.