Speaker 1: Brunch used to be our thing. The little cafe on
Speaker 1: Oak and twenty fourth, somen coming through warped old windows,
Speaker 1: Julia flicking foam from her cappuccino onto my wrist and
Speaker 1: laughing when I pretended to mind. Now a year later,
Speaker 1: Sundays feel like an old photograph. I'm half embarrassed to
Speaker 1: remember to day. She's sitting across from me, wearing a
Speaker 1: pale blue running jacket zipped up to her neck, even
Speaker 1: though it's past seventy outside. Her phone sits face down
Speaker 1: near her, coffee, buzzing once twice, then vibrating for a
Speaker 1: good ten seconds. With a call, She glances at it,
Speaker 1: mouth pulling tight for a half second, then offers a
Speaker 1: careful sorry, I need to grab this work, I think.
Speaker 1: She slides out of the booth before I can say anything,
Speaker 1: leaving the phone and its bright pink case sitting in
Speaker 1: that awkward patch of silence. I watch as she steps
Speaker 1: through the front door, tucking a headphone into her ear,
Speaker 1: her shoulders stiff. She's out there for ten minutes, pacing
Speaker 1: along the sidewalk, face animated at times, other times still
Speaker 1: the kind of half conversation you only have when you
Speaker 1: trust the other person to listen more than talk. I
Speaker 1: keep spooning sugar into my coffee, just to give my
Speaker 1: hands something to do. Across the room, two women my
Speaker 1: age collapse into giggles, heads almost touching. I remember Julia
Speaker 1: like that, warm, unguarded, even with me, at least most
Speaker 1: of the time. Now I can't remember the last time
Speaker 1: she laughed so freely, especially with just me. She comes
Speaker 1: back in, eyes scanning the room, and offers a quick
Speaker 1: apology client trouble, she says, sitting dabbing at her brow
Speaker 1: with a napkin. It's nothing. Her voice's off flat, too quick.
Speaker 1: There's a trace of sweat on her forehead, which fits
Speaker 1: the late June morning, but not for her. Maybe she
Speaker 1: jogged outside while on the call. Or maybe I'm inventing
Speaker 1: patterns now, like some one who wants something to be wrong,
Speaker 1: just so he's not alone in feeling it. The rest
Speaker 1: of brunch is a polite shadow dance. She asks about
Speaker 1: my latest freelance project, nodding through my answer, picking at
Speaker 1: her toast distractedly. I watch her try to check her
Speaker 1: phone while pretending not to. Each vibration makes her twitch,
Speaker 1: until finally, with a small sigh, she silences it and
Speaker 1: slides it inside her bag. The check comes. When I
Speaker 1: reach for my wallet, I noticed Julia's Jim water bottle,
Speaker 1: one of those gallant size motivational types with time stamps
Speaker 1: on the side, Keep going in neon purple. I don't
Speaker 1: remember her bringing it this morning. There's a yoga mat
Speaker 1: sticking out of her tote, rolled tight, the kind she
Speaker 1: usually leaves in the hall closet, under a loose pile
Speaker 1: of scarves. She used to make fun of people who
Speaker 1: carried their whole fitness persona with them to brunch, big
Speaker 1: plans afterwards. I ask, trying to sound casual, but my
Speaker 1: voice comes out small and reedy. She blinks just slightly. Yeah,
Speaker 1: thought i'd hit up a class before I get stuck
Speaker 1: with emails all afternoon, killing two birds, you know, I nod,
Speaker 1: but I'm not sure what birds she's really aiming for.
Speaker 1: We step outside into the soft, noisy heat, and Julia
Speaker 1: plants a swift kiss on my cheek before heading in
Speaker 1: the opposite direction. I should text you later, she says,
Speaker 1: words fluttering in that way they do when she's already
Speaker 1: half way somewhere else. I walk home alone. The city
Speaker 1: feels unfamiliar, slower, more distant. For the first time in
Speaker 1: a while, I noticed the thin space between us, and
Speaker 1: I wonder if it grew overnight or if it's been
Speaker 1: quietly splitting open in tiny cracks I never bothered to notice. Absently,
Speaker 1: I catch sight of my own reflection in a dusty
Speaker 1: car window, slouching a little, lips pressed together, and think,
Speaker 1: maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm inventing distance because I
Speaker 1: hate change. Julia's always had more appetite for new things, skydiving,
Speaker 1: strange food group classes. Maybe I'm the static one, or
Speaker 1: wanting the old rituals to protect us from change. But
Speaker 1: as I trudge upstairs to our apartment, a flicker of
Speaker 1: unease settles in sharper than anything I can name. We
Speaker 1: built our life by accident, but it worked. We met
Speaker 1: at a birthday party for Hannah, a crammed bar, neon drinks,
Speaker 1: someone's playlist looping Billie Eilish on repeat. Julia showed up late,
Speaker 1: slinging jokes at the bar tender, and I knew she'd
Speaker 1: make any room lopsided if she wanted. I wasn't a
Speaker 1: risk taker, not really, but with her small adventures felt safe.
Speaker 1: Bar hopping on a Tuesday midnight bus rides to nowhere,
Speaker 1: imprompt you road trips with nothing but a dented YETI
Speaker 1: cooler and her old dsl R. The first year was bumpy.
Speaker 1: We made up and broke up more than once before
Speaker 1: settling into something like balance. We got married at the
Speaker 1: court House, then through our own party with rented folding tables,
Speaker 1: bad wine, and every odd ball friend we had. If
Speaker 1: there are rules to being to get, we never agreed
Speaker 1: on them. We just layered small, stupid rituals over time.
Speaker 1: Friday night pizza with whatever movie was trending, Sunday brunches,
Speaker 1: a standing New Year's trip somewhere warm. We always said
Speaker 1: we'd skip kids, travel more, and never let work take
Speaker 1: over completely. Julia's job as an event planner sometimes meant
Speaker 1: wild hours, phone calls at dinner, and a growing collection
Speaker 1: of trade show swag in the closet. I've always freelanced
Speaker 1: as a graphic designer, enough gigs to pay for rent
Speaker 1: and the occasional splurge, occasional dry spells that never scared
Speaker 1: us too much. Most people imagine we are opposites. Julia outgoing, me, quieter,
Speaker 1: happier to watch than star but we met in the middle.
Speaker 1: I let her draw me into crowded rooms. She let
Speaker 1: me show her how to do nothing at all on
Speaker 1: a gray morning. We argued plenty, but they felt like
Speaker 1: border negotiations, not bombs. She liked to push me herself.
Speaker 1: Our circle of friends Julie A jumped at new hobbies
Speaker 1: every few months, tarot cards, kickboxing, improv comedy, and memorable
Speaker 1: flop the year of pottery class, which ended in a
Speaker 1: closet full of misshapen mugs. Me. I liked repetition. I
Speaker 1: like knowing what we do Friday and what left overs
Speaker 1: would be in the fridge come Monday. My friends joke
Speaker 1: that I grow roots. If not for Julia, she'd smile
Speaker 1: and say I need one foot on solid ground and
Speaker 1: one hanging off a cliff. That didn't scare me at first.
Speaker 1: If I'm honest, it still doesn't. What does scare me
Speaker 1: is the idea she might want a hand pulling her up,
Speaker 1: and I'm not the one she calls lately. The ritual's
Speaker 1: fray Friday Night's turn into I'm wiped may be another time,
Speaker 1: and our tight knit friend group Hannah, Rachel, Ethan Leela
Speaker 1: see us at fewer house parties, more Sunday updates over
Speaker 1: group chat than over drinks. We traded in novelty for
Speaker 1: what we called responsible adulthood, but in truth, I just
Speaker 1: want the lazy, light old version back. Julia's parents aren't close,
Speaker 1: holiday cards and awkward dinner invites every third month, but
Speaker 1: we're lucky not to rely on them. Her father asks
Speaker 1: about my work out of obligation. Her mother, chilly but polite,
Speaker 1: never really let Julia be wild at home. My own sister, Andrea,
Speaker 1: is five years younger, single, and rly fascinated by how
Speaker 1: functional Julia and I seem, as if she's waiting for
Speaker 1: the secret mess to emerge. For years, nothing got under
Speaker 1: our skin too deeply. I still believe that most of
Speaker 1: the time. But now it feels like small fractures propagate
Speaker 1: along the quiet surface of our home. Not enough to
Speaker 1: call it broken. Most wouldn't notice, but enough that if
Speaker 1: you traced each line, you'd spot a pattern. Thursday morning
Speaker 1: comes gray and slick with rain. I'm startled out of
Speaker 1: dreamless sleep by the muted sound of the bedroom door shutting.
Speaker 1: I fumble for my phone five forty a m. I
Speaker 1: wander to the kitchen, half asleep, tripping a for a
Speaker 1: stray sneaker Julia must have left in the dark. The
Speaker 1: smell of her shower gel lingers in the hallway, fresh
Speaker 1: and floral. Her usual travel mug is sitting on the counter,
Speaker 1: washed but not used. She never forgets that mug. She's
Speaker 1: compulsively routine about her coffee, something she started the year
Speaker 1: she switched jobs. I instinctively checked my phone, opening Instagram
Speaker 1: with sleepy thumbs. Julia's story is up, a distant, grainy
Speaker 1: shot through sun streaked windows and neon signage reading pulse zone,
Speaker 1: no faces, no location tag. Around seven, she comes home,
Speaker 1: cheeks dewy with sweat, hair swept up, jim bag clattering
Speaker 1: as she sets it down. She pauses when she sees
Speaker 1: me awake, then tilts her chin in a stretch. Hi, babe,
Speaker 1: she says, grinning too wide. Look at you up with
Speaker 1: the birds. For a second, I almost believe it's real.
Speaker 1: Then she's off to the bathroom, door locked, shower on full.
Speaker 1: She emerges a quarter hour later, smelling faintly artificial, as
Speaker 1: if she's washed away the whole morning. Good class, I ask,
Speaker 1: looping a dish towel through my fingers. She nods, briskly
Speaker 1: looking past me. Killer the instructor's a maniac. Let me
Speaker 1: know if you want a protein pancake. I snort. She laughs,
Speaker 1: but it feels more like punctuation than amusement. I check
Speaker 1: the trash, not out of suspicion, just habit, and notice
Speaker 1: a receipt from a gym called Iron Works. I glance
Speaker 1: at it twice. It lists an addressed two neighborhoods away
Speaker 1: across the city from us, near places we never go.
Speaker 1: Julia has always stuck to routines she could walk to
Speaker 1: or bike, hating early morning train commutes, I go all
Speaker 1: the way across town for an energy boost. I hold
Speaker 1: on to that receipt for the rest of the day.
Speaker 1: I'm sure if it means anything. Maybe she changed routines.
Speaker 1: Maybe I'm so bored. I see patterns in shadows. That night,
Speaker 1: around nine, we eat dinner in the living room, lay
Speaker 1: stew and boxed wine. Julia's phone dings in her lap.
Speaker 1: She glances at its, smirks, then covers the screen with
Speaker 1: her palm. It's the class group chat, she says, stifling
Speaker 1: a giggle. We're sharing old workout memes. You'd hate them.
Speaker 1: She doesn't offer to show me, I don't ask. The
Speaker 1: next few weeks take on a new shape. Julia's early
Speaker 1: wake ups become routine, three four days a week. She
Speaker 1: shuffles out the door before six, comes home around eight,
Speaker 1: flush with energy, and showers before saying much to me
Speaker 1: at all. Dinners get shorter. Movie nights become maybe tomorrow.
Speaker 1: I'm wrecked. When I half joke about joining her workouts,
Speaker 1: she says, honestly, it's not really your speed. Too sweaty,
Speaker 1: too loud. I kind of like having a weird little
Speaker 1: group that's just mine right now. She pats my arm,
Speaker 1: gentle but dismissive her old circle. The people who once
Speaker 1: filled our living room on Friday nights are slowly replaced
Speaker 1: in conversation by new names, new stories. Julia fishes out
Speaker 1: like bright pebbles, Crissy at the front row, Sarah, who
Speaker 1: lifts like the Hulk, bend the trainer with his outrageous lunges.
Speaker 1: I learned these people's quirks exclusively through Julia's out loud
Speaker 1: late night recaps, never in person. She never invites me along,
Speaker 1: never suggests a post class meal or mingling. Why don't
Speaker 1: you ever bring your new friends around? I ask, loading
Speaker 1: the dishwasher one Thursday night. She hesitates with a mug
Speaker 1: poised over the sink, eyes flickering, Oh you know, I
Speaker 1: barely know them outside class. Besides, don't you prefer our
Speaker 1: lazy nights to endless small talk? I let that hang
Speaker 1: in the other room. I hear her phone vibrate, a
Speaker 1: more aggressive buzz than before. One night, I passed by
Speaker 1: our guest room, meaning to grab my tape measure. Julia
Speaker 1: Essen there, bathed in low gold light, laptop open, head bent,
Speaker 1: her voice low and quick. Ben, just stop, I'll text
Speaker 1: you in an hour. I hear her laugh softly away.
Speaker 1: I haven't heard her laugh in months. The name Ben
Speaker 1: catches me. It's too casual. Dropped mid sentence. But when
Speaker 1: I appear in the doorway, she jumps er work drama.
Speaker 1: She says, with weak bravado. You'd think people would let
Speaker 1: me off the clock to pee. Sure I manage the
Speaker 1: question stuck to my tongue. She laughs again, But now
Speaker 1: it's brittle. She closes her laptop, smoothing her hair with
Speaker 1: automatic fingers. Let's do that podcast thing. You keep promising
Speaker 1: I could use a distraction. We lay side by side
Speaker 1: on the couch. Audio streaming, neither of us really listening.
Speaker 1: Her phone buzzes six times that hour, and every time
Speaker 1: she silences it. At one point, I see a preview
Speaker 1: flash across the lock screen. B you in Friday, got
Speaker 1: your favs Smoothie. She flips the phone out of sight
Speaker 1: before I can comment. I'm wandering in my own head now,
Speaker 1: tailing her in thought, feeling foolish, but not without reason.
Speaker 1: Laundry day comes and I pull out a sweatshirt one
Speaker 1: I've never seen before, emblazoned with a Jim logo, that
Speaker 1: doesn't look like any of Julia's usual haunts. It's oversized,
Speaker 1: a faded navy with a faint citrus scent. Julia claims,
Speaker 1: barely looking. Oh, that's Crissy's. She forgot it last time.
Speaker 1: Thought i'd break it in for her. The explanation dies
Speaker 1: before it makes it off her lips. Julia never borrows clothing.
Speaker 1: She's picky, sensitive about smells, quick to gift away anything
Speaker 1: she dislikes. I stare too long, she notices. Seriously, nothing weird,
Speaker 1: she says softer. I just want to spend more time
Speaker 1: with people who push me. It's not a dig at you,
Speaker 1: I nod, but it's not just about Jim's sweatshirts. That weekend,
Speaker 1: I spot a new perfume on the shelf above the
Speaker 1: bathroom sink, glass square, a minimalist label amber narrowly. Julia's
Speaker 1: always worn a certain lemonie scent since college, my signature,
Speaker 1: she joked. This new one is spicy, woody, earthier. She
Speaker 1: sprays it before class, never before work or weekends with me.
Speaker 1: On Saturday, she leaves humming bag over her shoulder. I
Speaker 1: wonder who the new scent is for. Our bank's statements
Speaker 1: start looking odd. Double charges at cafes near Julia's new gym,
Speaker 1: always early mornings or late afternoons. Two quassas, two lattes,
Speaker 1: sometimes on days. She tells me she's skipping breakfast to
Speaker 1: save time. When I mention it, she shrugs. Post class thing,
Speaker 1: we all refuel at this place after no big deal?
Speaker 1: Who goes? I ask, trying not to sound invested. She
Speaker 1: waves a hand. Whoever's not rushing to work. It's random.
Speaker 1: She never gives names, and I feel childish for caring. Andrea,
Speaker 1: my sister, corners me at her apartment after dinner one night.
Speaker 1: You guys, okay, she asks, eyes bright Julia's been well,
Speaker 1: She's not around much, not since April. Is she working more?
Speaker 1: She's into morning fitness now, I say, instantly defensive, Andrea
Speaker 1: raises both brows, unfooled. Just don't let her disappear. People
Speaker 1: get busy, sure, but they make time for what matters.
Speaker 1: I nod, not wanting her to ask more. Hannah, one
Speaker 1: of our oldest friends, texts me after group dinner. Julia
Speaker 1: left early, claiming exhaustion. Mid entray she seems really good
Speaker 1: these days, motivated in person. Hannah keeps it breezy, but
Speaker 1: her eyes slide sideways when Julia's name comes up. One
Speaker 1: rainy Tuesday, I come home early, arms ringed with groceries
Speaker 1: and let myself in quietly. Music throbs in the bathroom,
Speaker 1: Julia's playlist heavy on R and B, low and pulsing.
Speaker 1: I set down the bags, pad across the floor. The
Speaker 1: apartment smells different, vanilla and something masculine, a note like
Speaker 1: expensive cologne. I tap on the bathroom door. The shower stops.
Speaker 1: Julia emerges, towel turbaned, face open and surprise. Hey didn't
Speaker 1: expect you home yet, thought you'd be at the gym.
Speaker 1: She hesitates, just long enough for me to notice the
Speaker 1: class was canceled last minute. Decided to catch up on emails,
Speaker 1: then shower. I look at her waiting. She fills the silence. Sorry,
Speaker 1: it smells like a perfume counter. I spilled some fancy
Speaker 1: sample from my bag disaster. I want to say, was
Speaker 1: someone here? But I don't. I tuck the question into
Speaker 1: my pocket alongside every other small, useless fear. That night,
Speaker 1: I ask, forcing the words, Is everything okay with us?
Speaker 1: She sits next to me, hand on my knee. Of course,
Speaker 1: you know how I get fixating on something to distract
Speaker 1: from stress. Sometimes I just need space, She traces circles
Speaker 1: on my thigh. Work is non stop bullshit. Babe, I
Speaker 1: love you, but sometimes I want to talk about something else.
Speaker 1: I want to believe her, so I nod and we
Speaker 1: go to bed in the same tangle of sheets as always,
Speaker 1: her body warm along my back, heart beat pressing into me. Still,
Speaker 1: something's shifted. Julia's stories are increasingly populated by people I've
Speaker 1: never met, ben especially stars. In most anecdotes, always funny
Speaker 1: or infuriating or crucial to the team's spirit. She rehearses
Speaker 1: their jokes aloud, but never invites him over. I try
Speaker 1: to work late just to keep from wondering, but curiosity
Speaker 1: morphs into a kind of ritual. I find myself checking
Speaker 1: for new laundry, smells, receipts, anything left behind. One night,
Speaker 1: she's on the phone, voice muffled as she ducks out
Speaker 1: onto the balcony. I hear, just barely, no, he won't.
Speaker 1: I promise. I miss the next words, but the nothing
Speaker 1: that follows is worse than what I could have caught.
Speaker 1: Three week nds later, Julius skips our anniversary dinner, offering
Speaker 1: feverish apologies. The client is a nightmare, rescheduling events non stop.
Speaker 1: I'll make it up tomorrow, I swear, she does, sort of.
Speaker 1: We order in sushi, eat on the floor, exchange gifts.
Speaker 1: She gives me a print of a photo we took
Speaker 1: our first year. Her tangled in string lights, grinning captioned
Speaker 1: in her script. Still us for a moment. I'm almost convinced.
Speaker 1: But two days later she forgets Pieza Friday for a
Speaker 1: late meal with Jim friends and returns reeking of herbal
Speaker 1: cologne and unfamiliar laughter. After I probe again, I never
Speaker 1: see anyone from this class, don't they do? Anything outside
Speaker 1: working out. She shrugs into her hoodie. We hang sometimes,
Speaker 1: but everyone's time strapped. Is not a secret club, babe,
Speaker 1: Why don't you ever want me to join? She gives
Speaker 1: me a look, half joking, half wary. It's my weird sanctuary. Besides,
Speaker 1: you'd hate it. I can barely handle it. Sometimes i'd try,
Speaker 1: you know. Her smile is thin. I know, but sometimes
Speaker 1: stuff's better when it's just mine, like your star trek
Speaker 1: nights with Ethan. The comparison is almost funny, almost a
Speaker 1: dare I drop it? Regretful. That weekend, I find a
Speaker 1: hastily crumpled receipt for breakfast two orders of avocado toast
Speaker 1: and flat whites, this time at a cafe half way
Speaker 1: across the city. Julia was supposed to be solo unwinding
Speaker 1: at the park that morning, I stare at the slip,
Speaker 1: try to imagine what's more innocent, A friend, a random classmate,
Speaker 1: or something I don't want to say aloud. That night,
Speaker 1: I try to bring up my worries to Hannah in
Speaker 1: quiet conversation as our group leaves a movie. She fidgets
Speaker 1: glancing at her phone. Julia just seems really driven lately.
Speaker 1: She says, tone annoyingly neutral. You know how she gets
Speaker 1: when she's into something. No one will name what I'm thinking.
Speaker 1: Maybe they don't want to. Maybe I'm the only one looking.
Speaker 1: Julia gets boulder or lazier. Maybe it's the same thing.
Speaker 1: On the laundry shelf, I find a Jim towel stitched
Speaker 1: with Beefit stiff and not like any brand we own.
Speaker 1: The next wash cycle, there's another new shirt, much too large.
Speaker 1: I hold it up. Is this more borrowed stuff? She
Speaker 1: shakes her head. I'm sorry that one's Ben's. I think
Speaker 1: after last week's work out, everyone just threw their junk
Speaker 1: in one pile. He said, keep it. I'll swap it
Speaker 1: back next class. I don't want to sound petty, but
Speaker 1: I ask. So. Ben washes his clothes at your Jim.
Speaker 1: She laughs too loud. It's not deep mark. She sprays
Speaker 1: her new perfume, smiling past me. I wonder if Ben
Speaker 1: has ever smelled it up close. There's a pattern forming
Speaker 1: visible if I squint. Julia comes home already showered, never
Speaker 1: sweats into our couch any more. But the Jim bag
Speaker 1: smells like eucalyptus body spray blended with something heavier and male.
Speaker 1: Our social life has shrunk to rare brunches more about
Speaker 1: catching up with absences than sharing what's new. Andrea notices
Speaker 1: you look fried, she tells me at a family thing.
Speaker 1: Is Julia okay? She's fine? Busy? Doesn't feel like that,
Speaker 1: she says, quiet, feels like she somewhere else. Half the time,
Speaker 1: I have no answer, so I change the subject. That night,
Speaker 1: I lay awake watching slivers of light run across the ceiling.
Speaker 1: Julia's breath is steady. I envy her certainty. The next night,
Speaker 1: Julia leaves her phone open on the night stand. Rare,
Speaker 1: A calculated mistake or an accident, I don't know. In
Speaker 1: the morning, it vibrates with a message from b The
Speaker 1: preview is just a winking emoji. Julia snatches her phone
Speaker 1: away before I can say anything, muttering that group chats
Speaker 1: are getting out of hand. Later that day, I log
Speaker 1: into our shared bank account to make a rent transfer.
Speaker 1: Mixed in with groceries and eubers are three charges in
Speaker 1: a weak labeled beefit console. I click the info tab,
Speaker 1: just the business name, nothing else. I ask Julia that
Speaker 1: night about the expense. Oh Ben started doing private classes
Speaker 1: coaching for those of us wanting to push harder group rates.
Speaker 1: It's like cheaper than a massage or a real trainer.
Speaker 1: It adds up. I say, voice careful. She shrugs, I'll
Speaker 1: cut back. I just wanted to see if I could
Speaker 1: actually stick with something for once. Her smile doesn't reach
Speaker 1: her eyes. Friday arrives and Julia comes home, carrying her
Speaker 1: jim bag and a grease stained paper bag of Quassas
Speaker 1: she pulls off her shoes and groans, I make a
Speaker 1: half hearted joke about becoming a class regular. Julia purses
Speaker 1: her lips, eyes softening a little. You're sweet, but you
Speaker 1: don't want to do circuits with me? At six a m.
Speaker 1: Trust me, I half smile, but I ache to protest.
Speaker 1: That night, she gets a call after eleven. She leaves
Speaker 1: the room to answer, not returning for twenty five minutes.
Speaker 1: The next morning, I find her pajamas folded neatly atop
Speaker 1: her gym bag and a whiff of musky cologne lingers.
Speaker 1: When she returns, she showers quickly, ignoring my attempt at conversation,
Speaker 1: face mask already on. I cave and ask, do you
Speaker 1: want to catch a movie this week? Just us? She sighs. Honestly,
Speaker 1: I'm fried. The new client is destroying me. Next week okay,
Speaker 1: but it's not just tiredness, it's her looking through me.
Speaker 1: Days creak by routine, but noisier. Julia's group chappings late
Speaker 1: into the night. She never invites me along, never references
Speaker 1: old jokes, never tells any real stories. After two months,
Speaker 1: I feel like an actor in my own marriage, playing
Speaker 1: a role I didn't audition for, the understanding, easy going partner,
Speaker 1: unflappable above suspicion, then out of nowhere. Julia hosts a
Speaker 1: dinner at a little Italian place to celebrate finally landing
Speaker 1: that nightmare client. She invites me. Dresses nicer than I've
Speaker 1: seen in ages, red silk dress, lipstick, mask of ease,
Speaker 1: wrapped over something taut. That night, over candle light, Julia
Speaker 1: paws out small, tender confessions. Work has felt like a grind.
Speaker 1: She starts, eyes glinting, and I know I've been distant.
Speaker 1: The gim the classes is not entirely about health. Sometimes
Speaker 1: I get stuck, feel boring, like I'm letting people down.
Speaker 1: Pushing myself was the only thing I could actually control.
Speaker 1: I blink, letting out a slow breath. My heart tumbles
Speaker 1: loose of its own weight. Was it just this stress
Speaker 1: and self doubt? She says, she wants to be us again,
Speaker 1: to make more time for each other, to not let
Speaker 1: routines dominate. For the first time in months, we linger
Speaker 1: over dessert, hands gently entwined. Back home, Julia pulls me
Speaker 1: in urgent, as if she's making up for all the
Speaker 1: self sufficiency that has can her apart. We make love,
Speaker 1: and her skin feels real, her laughter unstudded. We talk
Speaker 1: late about travel plans, finally booking the trip we've put
Speaker 1: off three days in the mountains next month. I let
Speaker 1: myself believe that the storm has passed, and that maybe,
Speaker 1: just maybe I overreacted. Julia spends Sunday morning scrolling through
Speaker 1: her class schedule, showing me the new spots she likes.
Speaker 1: If you want to watch some time, you should. They
Speaker 1: let guests sit at the back. She presses her phone
Speaker 1: into my hands and lets me scroll her calendar. I ask,
Speaker 1: half laughing, who's this Ben guy anyway? I keep hearing
Speaker 1: his name in every story. She snorts, He's just the trainer, goofy,
Speaker 1: absurdly fit, calls every one legend and shouts a lot.
Speaker 1: Totally not my type, if that's what you're asking, she winks,
Speaker 1: easing the tension. I decide to let it drop, enjoying
Speaker 1: the rare soft focus between us. She seems lighter, like
Speaker 1: something truly has changed. But peace, as it turns out,
Speaker 1: is always temporary. Monday dawns sticky, unseasonably hot. I'm making coffee,
Speaker 1: humming something tuneless when Julia's phone, abandoned on the kitchen counter,
Speaker 1: lights up with a series of texts from an unsaved number.
Speaker 1: The previews pile up, one after another without pause. Got
Speaker 1: the smoothies come pick up? Hey you where are you?
Speaker 1: Did you tell him yet? Julia walks in, sees my
Speaker 1: eyes dark to the screen. Her composure craters for a
Speaker 1: split second, she snatches the phone, thumb flying over the lock.
Speaker 1: She's tense, abrupt, hurried my friend from class. She's having
Speaker 1: a melt done before our session. Needs advice. I'm gonna
Speaker 1: run out now. Left my bag by the door, but
Speaker 1: her jim bag is lying abandoned in the bedroom, half sipped,
Speaker 1: missing her water bottle, and with only one shoe poking out.
Speaker 1: She throws on a jacket, fumbles with her keys, and
Speaker 1: bolts out the front door slams too hard. I find
Speaker 1: myself staring at the crack under the threshold, the dancing
Speaker 1: dust in the lazy morning light. The static in my
Speaker 1: chest returns. I sit in the living room, hands flat
Speaker 1: on my knees, eyes flicking from her forgotten jim bag
Speaker 1: to the row of unused mugs in the kitchen. The
Speaker 1: apartment smells like nothing, just faint, detergent and what's left
Speaker 1: of her perfume. Out of a mixture of pettiness, jealousy,
Speaker 1: and confusion, I unzip the jim bag and sift through
Speaker 1: the tangle of towels, leggings, loose change. In a side pocket,
Speaker 1: I find a folded note next time, don't forget me b.
Speaker 1: The handwriting is quick, smooth, strangely familiar from somewhere I
Speaker 1: can't quite recall. My pulse stutters. This isn't a mime,
Speaker 1: a group joke, or a schedule reminder. This is intimate,
Speaker 1: a note written as if secret, both innocent and loaded
Speaker 1: at the same time. I return everything to its place,
Speaker 1: hands shaking slightly. I want to call Julia, but I don't.
Speaker 1: I want to text Ben, even though I only know
Speaker 1: him from descriptions. I do nothing. All day, I replay
Speaker 1: the last few weeks on loop, rearranging details, perfume, shirts, laughter.
Speaker 1: I tell myself not to snoop, not to dig, but
Speaker 1: that's just a lie. Two days pass, Julia is gone early,
Speaker 1: back late. I'm restless, compulsively cleaning and scrolling. Eventually I
Speaker 1: can't help myself. I resolve to visit her Jim Pulse Zone,
Speaker 1: or maybe that Iron Work's place, or wherever Ben seems
Speaker 1: to reside. The next morning, I drive across the city,
Speaker 1: sign up for a free consultation at Iron Works, and
Speaker 1: wait awkwardly by the Smoothie bar. People come and go,
Speaker 1: looking nothing like Julia's descriptions. Nobody matches my mental image
Speaker 1: of this Ben. Then around eight I see her June Julia,
Speaker 1: hair tied, high bag, criss crossing her chest, standing flush
Speaker 1: with a tall, blonde guy in tight shorts and a
Speaker 1: sleeveless tea. Ben presumably he grins too wide, says something.
Speaker 1: She laughs, tipping her shoulder into his chest, the kind
Speaker 1: of thoughtless touch of people who are comfortable or careless
Speaker 1: or more. They move toward the juice counter. I watch,
Speaker 1: feeling ashamed, as Julia rests her hand on Ben's forearm.
Speaker 1: Their voices are light, joking. She throws her head back,
Speaker 1: her laughter free for the first time in months. It's
Speaker 1: that same laugh I remember from earlier days, except it's
Speaker 1: not with me. They talk too close for casual friends.
Speaker 1: Ben types something into her phone, leaning in. I can't
Speaker 1: hear them over the din. I want to barge over
Speaker 1: to shout or scoff or do something unforgivable. I don't.
Speaker 1: I walk back to the calm, my limbs sluggish. Back home,
Speaker 1: I do what I swore I wouldn't. I checked Julia's
Speaker 1: social media. I scroll to the fitness studio's page, then
Speaker 1: Ben's account public, naturally full of shirtless motivational posts and groups.
Speaker 1: Selfie after group selfie. They're buried in his stories is
Speaker 1: a shot taken at a cafe table. Julia's giant purple
Speaker 1: water bottle sits in the background, unmistakable, right beside two
Speaker 1: plates and a half finished smoothie. I show my phone
Speaker 1: to Andrea later. That weak voice, barely steady. Am I
Speaker 1: reading too much into this? What would you think? She winces, Honestly,
Speaker 1: it doesn't look good. Are you going to ask her
Speaker 1: about it? I shake my head if I'm wrong. I
Speaker 1: look paranoid. If I'm right, I don't know what happens.
Speaker 1: My hands close around the note from Ben, crumpled in
Speaker 1: my pocket, over and over. That Friday, our group meets
Speaker 1: for drinks at a dive bar. Julia arrives late, apologizing
Speaker 1: to everyone, exuding restless energy. I watch her with new eyes,
Speaker 1: scanning for signs. When one of her new fitness friends,
Speaker 1: a slight woman named Lauren, shows up, I break away
Speaker 1: and order beers for us. Both. You're in Julia's class, right,
Speaker 1: I ask, keeping the question light. Lauren smiles, awkward friendly
Speaker 1: most weeks. Yeah, she's a beast, never misses. We never
Speaker 1: seem to meet her new crew outside the gym, I say.
Speaker 1: Lauren hesitates, then shrugs. It's a lot of scheduling. I
Speaker 1: usually duck out, but Julia and Ben they are always around.
Speaker 1: After I guess I thought you too, were you know,
Speaker 1: chill open? She half laughs, But hey, it's none of
Speaker 1: my business. I thank her. She disappears before more small
Speaker 1: talk can pile up. Her. Phrasing hammers through my gut.
Speaker 1: Julia and Ben always together. Back at the table, Julia's
Speaker 1: eyes cut to me. I think she senses a shift,
Speaker 1: but she says nothing. The cracks are obvious now, but
Speaker 1: I try to convince myself. I want the truth, not confirmation.
Speaker 1: That's not true. I want to be wrong. That night,
Speaker 1: when Julia showers, I check the bank account again. The
Speaker 1: beefit consult charges line up perfectly with the mornings. When
Speaker 1: her class is last extra long, I check my phone.
Speaker 1: No new texts from Julia, no explanation, no invitation to join.
Speaker 1: On Sunday, when we go to brunch with our old circle,
Speaker 1: just four of us this time, Julia laughs about some
Speaker 1: outrageous plank contest, and I notice that no one else
Speaker 1: in our group smiles, as if we're hearing a foreign language.
Speaker 1: After as we walk home, I ask, do you want
Speaker 1: me to come watch class tomorrow? She pauses, scanning my face.
Speaker 1: Maybe another time. Ben is coaching this week, and he
Speaker 1: gets weird with new people. Next time. Promise. That night,
Speaker 1: when we're in the dark, I finally say, if there's
Speaker 1: something going on, if you're seeing someone or even thinking
Speaker 1: about it, I need you to tell me. She turns over,
Speaker 1: sighs so softly. I barely hear. You're overthinking everything. Mark.
Speaker 1: I need space. You can't keep acting like I'm cheating
Speaker 1: just because I've found something that excites me. But she
Speaker 1: isn't angry, She's frightened. The silence between us last until morning.
Speaker 1: I wish it would grow or shatter. Instead it holds.
Speaker 1: Monday morning, the city ambles awake, trash trucks rattling two
Speaker 1: blocks away, some one shouting at a dog. Julia's already
Speaker 1: gone when I wake, the sheets beside me cold, no
Speaker 1: sign of her except a faint, damp impression on the
Speaker 1: pillow and a whiff of last night's perfume lingering behind
Speaker 1: the closet door. I lie there, blinking up at the
Speaker 1: water stain on the ceiling, wondering if this is what
Speaker 1: distance really feels like, if it starts as something you
Speaker 1: can physically touch, or if it's always just a lack.
Speaker 1: I get up, shuffle around, attempt to calibrate to a
Speaker 1: day she's already half way started. It doesn't work. Usually
Speaker 1: on her Jim days, she leaves a note for me,
Speaker 1: sometimes a dumb sticky on the fridge, coffee esson toast
Speaker 1: yourself to day. Nothing. My phone is silent except for
Speaker 1: promotional alerts. When she returns an hour later, she's bubbily,
Speaker 1: almost overcompensating, rattling off class stories. Panting lightly, She towes
Speaker 1: off her shoes, then sees me standing by the kettle
Speaker 1: and freezes the calculation behind her smile, flickering for a moment.
Speaker 1: You're up, decided to do emils from home to day? Yeah?
Speaker 1: Why not? My voice is so casual it feels false
Speaker 1: even to me. I think I've got a client call
Speaker 1: at noon, but I'm taking it here. She glances at
Speaker 1: her phone, then at the bathroom, a familiar pattern. Mind,
Speaker 1: if I shower first, I'm gross. I force a grin.
Speaker 1: Knock yourself out. I watch her dart down the hall,
Speaker 1: closing the door with just a touch more force than usual.
Speaker 1: I text Andrea, just as simple? Are you around after work?
Speaker 1: And go about the motions. Half trapped in a looping question,
Speaker 1: I still can't ask out loud if she is cheating?
Speaker 1: Does that mean everything meant less to her all along?
Speaker 1: Or did she disappear right in front of me bit
Speaker 1: by bit while I was in the room. When Julia
Speaker 1: re emerges, she moves around the apartment with hurried precision lotions,
Speaker 1: make up, assembling laptop bag, barely sparing me a glance.
Speaker 1: I want to intercept her to force some kind of conversation,
Speaker 1: but the words coagulate and rot before they escape me.
Speaker 1: She isn't avoiding me exactly, She's just moving through a
Speaker 1: space where we used to reside together. Later, around noon,
Speaker 1: I decide to walk to a coffee shop to finish
Speaker 1: my work so I can clear my head. The morning
Speaker 1: air is sharp, a cold front sudden on a whim.
Speaker 1: I turn a block early past the upscale gym where
Speaker 1: Julia is supposed to be a drop in member. Through
Speaker 1: mirrored windows, I see a blur of bodies pulsing through circuits,
Speaker 1: but no sign of her. Nobody in the class that
Speaker 1: fits Julia's shape or gait. It could be nothing. Her
Speaker 1: class probably ends long before now, but I feel a
Speaker 1: pang of certainty cut through the fog. By three, my
Speaker 1: calls are finished and I'm wandering aimlessly, combing through group chats,
Speaker 1: in star feeds, calender reminders for a sign of her.
Speaker 1: There isn't one. At six, Julia texts running late meeting
Speaker 1: went over order something. I stare at the message for
Speaker 1: a long time before replying shore pad tie. She thumbs
Speaker 1: up the reply, and that's it For another hour, dead
Speaker 1: space where we used to ping silly updates, memes, gripes.
Speaker 1: She gets home after eight cheeks, pink hair still damp.
Speaker 1: Her gym bag is slung over one shoulder, but she's
Speaker 1: in jeans, not her usual leggings. Sorry, traffic was murder.
Speaker 1: Everything okay with you? I want to ask why the bag?
Speaker 1: Why change out of workout gear? Why you always showered
Speaker 1: before you even walk in the door. Instead, I answer, yeah,
Speaker 1: dinner s in the oven. Oh you're a hero, she says,
Speaker 1: but tosses her bag in the bedroom so quickly I
Speaker 1: almost don't see it. We eat in near silence, forks
Speaker 1: scraping against take out containers. I ask about her client.
Speaker 1: She launches into a detailed play by play of vendor mishaps,
Speaker 1: her energy surging, filling up the spaces I've left vacant. Eventually,
Speaker 1: she mentions, almost in passing, Ben s trying to run
Speaker 1: a pop up boot camp down town. He keeps asking
Speaker 1: if I want to help organize intro events, you think
Speaker 1: I should? There? It is his name, newly casual and
Speaker 1: injected with plausible deniability. My smile feels stiff. Wouldn't that
Speaker 1: mean even more hours away? She makes a face, You
Speaker 1: sound like my parents. It's just fun. I need some
Speaker 1: fun these days. Mark. I sip my water, then set
Speaker 1: the glass down. Does Ben ever hang out outside the gym?
Speaker 1: I mention him more than Chrissy or any of your
Speaker 1: old friends. She shrugs. He's everywhere. Honestly, can't avoid him.
Speaker 1: A loose thread of irritation trails through her tone. He
Speaker 1: probably flirts with half the class. If it makes you
Speaker 1: feel better, you too seem close. Is that a problem?
Speaker 1: There's a flicker of challenge in her eye, an invitation
Speaker 1: to an argument we both know I won't pursue. I
Speaker 1: force myself to let it go. No, just curious. She relaxes, barely.
Speaker 1: It's not that deep. Then, as if to distract, she
Speaker 1: pulls her laptop toward her and starts scrolling offers from
Speaker 1: discount trip sites. You still wanna do the mountains in May,
Speaker 1: she asks, voice lighter. I was thinking we could actually
Speaker 1: unplug this time. Her energy tugs me along. We talk
Speaker 1: trip details, cabins, hikes, whether we can survive three days
Speaker 1: without Wi Fi. She even jokes about bringing board games,
Speaker 1: and for a moment, I catch a whiff of what
Speaker 1: used to be planning, anticipating, acting like we were good
Speaker 1: at sharing futures. It's after midnight when Julia heads to bed,
Speaker 1: phone clutched, her chest, eyes hooded. I'm left on the couch,
Speaker 1: blue light on my face, scrolling deeper and deeper the
Speaker 1: Jim's staff bios, Ben's smug Instagram grid, Julia's own posts,
Speaker 1: reading between every line. Ben lives for Movement, Love's transformation stories.
Speaker 1: His captions are full of legend hustle, no days off. Julia,
Speaker 1: in the background of one boomerang, is holding up two smoothies,
Speaker 1: head thrown back in laughter. My chest squeezes. It's recent,
Speaker 1: posted two weeks ago on Ben's story, not hers. I
Speaker 1: would never have seen it if not for the algorithm's
Speaker 1: algorithmic precision. I tap through more images. One of the
Speaker 1: group blurry and energetic captioned squad goals. Julia is positioned
Speaker 1: smack beside Ben, one arm thrown across another class mate,
Speaker 1: her knees nearly pressed to Ben's hip. I tell myself,
Speaker 1: people pose like this all the time. I tell myself
Speaker 1: it means nothing, and for a second I almost believe it.
Speaker 1: The next morning, a package arrives, A box of new
Speaker 1: running shoes with Julia's name, on it. She opens it
Speaker 1: with exaggerated delight, shows them to me in the kitchen.
Speaker 1: Ben destroyed my old pair last week, trip me as
Speaker 1: a joke. He keeps threatening to upgrade my stride. Honestly,
Speaker 1: I might be the only girl he doesn't hit on.
Speaker 1: Her laugh is half swallowed. She hands me a shoe
Speaker 1: as if I'm supposed to approve. It feels more like
Speaker 1: a prop than evidence of anything. That night, Andrea invites
Speaker 1: me for drinks. She chooses a bar with deep booths
Speaker 1: and off brand whiskey. And I tell myself I won't
Speaker 1: talk about Julia. We do, of course, you seem rung out.
Speaker 1: She observes, after a drink, are you sleeping? Not well?
Speaker 1: I admit Julia's different lately, and doesn't blink. You think
Speaker 1: she's screwing around? I flinch. I don't know. She SIPs
Speaker 1: her drink, thoughtful. You used to talk for hours about
Speaker 1: dumb thoughts, like whether bagels are overrated, or if you
Speaker 1: could ever move to Portland. You don't mention her much anymore.
Speaker 1: That's weird. Everything's different now, I say, I'm sure if
Speaker 1: it's an excuse or an accusation, maybe she leans in.
Speaker 1: Just ask her seriously before you implode. I nod, but
Speaker 1: I know I won't, not yet. Julia is out. When
Speaker 1: I get home, there's no note, only the ghost of
Speaker 1: perfume and a mute phone charging at the end of
Speaker 1: the bed. I resist the urge to check her texts,
Speaker 1: settling instead for flicking the screen for miss Call's none
Speaker 1: since last night. I pace, rewrite emails, half watch basketball
Speaker 1: on mute. Just before midnight, I hear the door unlock.
Speaker 1: Julia's voice is hushed as she comes in, followed by
Speaker 1: her light step. I watch her pass jim bag in hand,
Speaker 1: moving immediately to the bathroom. The shower starts rumbling steady.
Speaker 1: I stare at her phone. It has a fingerprint lock,
Speaker 1: and for three minutes I debate hacking through it, searching
Speaker 1: for what I'm afraid to find. I don't. Instead, when
Speaker 1: she's in the shower, I open her jim bag again.
Speaker 1: I tell myself I'm only looking for stray receipts, nothing invasive,
Speaker 1: but my hands shake. Inside. Among the usual tangle leggings,
Speaker 1: hair ties, deodorant, I find a small plastic container smeared
Speaker 1: with what looks like left over chocolate and a fork
Speaker 1: wrapped in a napkin from a cafe I know isn't
Speaker 1: in our neighborhood. On the napkin, what I think is
Speaker 1: a doodle of a dog, and beneath it two letters B.
Speaker 1: I start to feel sick. It's nothing, probably innocent, an
Speaker 1: in joke, or something else. I reset everything, hands trembling,
Speaker 1: as if a ranging invisible evidence will make the suspicion disappear.
Speaker 1: Julia comes out in pajamas, rubs her face, and offers
Speaker 1: a tired smile. You're up late, was hungry, couldn't sleep.
Speaker 1: I look for a flicker of guilt, a tremor, nothing
Speaker 1: but opaque calm. She snares my waist, leans in breath,
Speaker 1: clean and sharp with mouth wash. Don't stress, she whispers,
Speaker 1: pressing her lips to my temple. Let's just be boring
Speaker 1: together to morrow. Okay, it's the best offer I've had
Speaker 1: in ages. But when I waken the night, she's not
Speaker 1: beside me. She's at the window, wrapped in a blanket,
Speaker 1: scrolling her phone, face lit by cold blue light. Saturday,
Speaker 1: we attempt normal. Julia proposes a late breakfast at a
Speaker 1: tiny place we haven't tried. She's animated, her old self,
Speaker 1: infectious and teasing her hand in mine As we wander
Speaker 1: the streets. When we bump into an old friend, Ethan,
Speaker 1: he asks where we've been hiding. Julia launches into stories
Speaker 1: about work, Jim, the crazy new boot camp crew. She
Speaker 1: lists names, breezing past Ben as if he's nothing special.
Speaker 1: At one point, Julia slips away to call the restaurant
Speaker 1: about our reservation. Ethan watches me, gentle concern in his eyes.
Speaker 1: Everything okay, man, I swallow my first impulse. Yeah, she's
Speaker 1: just into different stuff lately. You too, Always find your rhythm.
Speaker 1: If you need a guy night, call me. Julia returns
Speaker 1: before I can respond. Her energy seems real, But when
Speaker 1: we get home, she retreats into the bedroom for an
Speaker 1: urgent call. I eavesdrop soft laughter, a low voice, a
Speaker 1: sort of privacy I'm never invited to share. Later, when
Speaker 1: she comes out, she's solicitous, offers to order dinner, suggests
Speaker 1: a Netflix binge. I tell myself, she's trying that I'm
Speaker 1: the one making this complicated. We stay up late, drinking
Speaker 1: cheap wine, easy laughter, filtering into our talk. The cracks recede,
Speaker 1: but I know the fault line is just beneath our
Speaker 1: feet on Monday, another early meeting for Julia, another jim
Speaker 1: bag by the door. At dawn, I feign sleep and
Speaker 1: listen to her search for sneakers, cursing under her breath,
Speaker 1: Then the soft click of her phone unlocking, and the
Speaker 1: gentle thrum of an incoming message. The elevator hums, and
Speaker 1: she's gone. I text Hannah mid morning. Does it ever
Speaker 1: feel like people change overnight? She replies, cryptic, as always sometimes,
Speaker 1: or maybe we just see certain things at new angles.
Speaker 1: The question rattles in my head all day. Julia's next
Speaker 1: few evenings blur, late nights, more showers, new stories. Meanwhile,
Speaker 1: I start building my own small investigations, mapping out when
Speaker 1: she leaves, what clothes she wears, how many times Ben's
Speaker 1: name comes up in stories, what days the beefit consult
Speaker 1: charges ding our account. I cross check the group class schedule.
Speaker 1: It fits with most of the charges. But there's always
Speaker 1: a morning or two when things don't line up that
Speaker 1: I accidentally show up at iron Works early, carrying my
Speaker 1: sketch book and loiter near the front desk. I see Ben.
Speaker 1: He's magnetic, obviously a tornado of energy, the kind of
Speaker 1: guy people cluster around, laughing, too hard at his jokes.
Speaker 1: I spot Julia soon after, in front row leggings and
Speaker 1: a tank of never seen her posture, loose and animated.
Speaker 1: I duck out the moment Ben's gaze slides my way.
Speaker 1: No confrontation, not yet. That week end, our old friends
Speaker 1: come by for game night. Julia's present lively, refilling glasses,
Speaker 1: chiming in with her old brand of irreverence. If you
Speaker 1: didn't know better, you'd think our troubles were exaggerated, that
Speaker 1: routine had returned. But amid the laughter, I watched Julia
Speaker 1: catch her phone, tap out a reply beneath the table,
Speaker 1: then lock it again with the kind of furtive muscle
Speaker 1: memory built from practice. After everyone leaves, I mentioned Ben
Speaker 1: in a half joke. So when do I get to
Speaker 1: meet this ledger trainer? Julia gives me a look I
Speaker 1: can't decipher. Maybe at the next Jim's social if you
Speaker 1: really want to come, do you want me there? She hesitates,
Speaker 1: eyes searching mine. Her mouth twists, and then she shakes
Speaker 1: her head, subtle, almost involuntary. I don't know. May be
Speaker 1: best to keep some worlds separate. The air between us sharpens.
Speaker 1: Tuesday afternoon, I walk through the kitchen and see an
Speaker 1: envelope on the counter addressed to Julia in thick block handwriting,
Speaker 1: I don't mean to, but I thumb it open at
Speaker 1: the corner and peek vouchers for a boutique cafe across town,
Speaker 1: plus a short note typed on Jim letterhead. Can't wait
Speaker 1: for next time? Don't be late? Be that night I
Speaker 1: fought a conversation. Are you happy? I ask, not caring
Speaker 1: how flat my words sound. Julia's eyes go wide. What
Speaker 1: kind of question is that? A real one? Are you?
Speaker 1: She thinks, a long, hard pause, as if trying to
Speaker 1: read the map of our last six months. Some days,
Speaker 1: some days are harder. What about with me? She reaches
Speaker 1: for me, But this time I stiffen. I don't want
Speaker 1: to lose you, she says, as if that's all we need.
Speaker 1: I let her hold my hand, but I don't return
Speaker 1: the squeeze. The days accumulate, Julia's Jim attendant spikes, Her
Speaker 1: stories fill with more and more tales of the squad,
Speaker 1: Her messages ping at odd hours, quick delighted responses that
Speaker 1: stop cold. If I walk into the room, I bump
Speaker 1: into Lauren again. Outside the fitness studio, late evening, When
Speaker 1: the sky tumbles to Navy, she looks relieved to see
Speaker 1: a familiar face. Hey, Mark Wright, Yeah, you just finish class.
Speaker 1: She grins half the class. When out for drinks, Ben
Speaker 1: likes to rally the troops. She stops hesitating, then adds
Speaker 1: Julia's basically his favorite. You know, I nod, working hard
Speaker 1: to keep my voice neutral. You all must be pretty close,
Speaker 1: She shrugs the inner circle. Yea, sometimes it gets intense.
Speaker 1: I want to ask more, but Lauren's tone slides toward discomfort,
Speaker 1: and she says, got a run, hope to see you around.
Speaker 1: Her exit leaves a dull ache behind home again. I
Speaker 1: stare at my own reflection in the hall mirror, trying
Speaker 1: to decipher if the sadness etched across my face is
Speaker 1: a warning or just fatigue. That night, after Julia's late,
Speaker 1: after she shrugs off my questions, after she buries herself
Speaker 1: in sheets beside me, I lie still listening to her, slow,
Speaker 1: even breathing. I wonder if intimacy is ever really shared,
Speaker 1: or if deep down every one saves a cut of
Speaker 1: themselves for some one else. It's past midnight when I
Speaker 1: finally sleep, and even then my dreams are shot through
Speaker 1: with fragments, fit bodies under harsh lights. Julia's voice, laughing
Speaker 1: but unreachable, cryptic notes on napkins banks, statements with the
Speaker 1: same unfamiliar charge, repeating over and over. The next morning,
Speaker 1: the quiet in the apartment feels thinner than tissue paper.
Speaker 1: And I'm scared of where I left off last night,
Speaker 1: afraid of my own cowardice as much as of Julia.
Speaker 1: My limbs ache from bad sleep. The crack beneath the
Speaker 1: bedroom door glows faintly, where day creeps in slanting rectangles
Speaker 1: caught across the hardwood. Julia's already up, moving in the kitchen.
Speaker 1: I smell espresso and the faint tang of burnt toast.
Speaker 1: My heart taps in my throat. I move quietly, hoping
Speaker 1: to observe her before she sees me, as if distance
Speaker 1: gives me some leverage, some protection. She staring at her phone,
Speaker 1: lips pursed, thumbing messages so hard her whole hand seems
Speaker 1: to vibrate. I linger by the doorway, watching her type.
Speaker 1: Her body is tense, every line pulled taut. She looks up, surprised, Oh,
Speaker 1: she says, too bright. Didn't hear you? For a second.
Speaker 1: I consider calling her out right, then laying every half
Speaker 1: proved suspicion dead on the table. But I'm not ready.
Speaker 1: I don't know what I want from her confession, apology,
Speaker 1: or just proof I'm not losing my mind. She taps
Speaker 1: off the espresso machine, pours two mugs as black mine,
Speaker 1: loaded with milk, and pushes one across the counter. Her
Speaker 1: eyes flick up, searching my face. I pick up the cup,
Speaker 1: holding it awkwardly. Plans to day, she asks, as if
Speaker 1: nothing is changed between us. I shake my head, nothing urgent, cool.
Speaker 1: I'll probably do the late morning class, then maybe hit
Speaker 1: the park. Let you get your work done right. Her
Speaker 1: tone is gentle, almost apologetic. I nod, watching a hurry
Speaker 1: through her toast, wrap herself in routine like armor. I
Speaker 1: study the way her hands move, controlled, practiced, not nervous, no,
Speaker 1: not quite, but cautious, as if rehearsing for a role.
Speaker 1: I haven't seen her practice. The bags under her eyes
Speaker 1: are deeper. I wonder if she's sleeping any better than
Speaker 1: I am. Once she leaves, the silence feels sharper, pressing in.
Speaker 1: I knock around the apartment for hours, checking my phone,
Speaker 1: rereading bank statements, counting the receipts, touching the napkin with
Speaker 1: the doodle now folded inside my wallet like some back
Speaker 1: handed lucky charm. Every time the front door buzzes, my
Speaker 1: shoulders jump. By afternoon, I haven't worked and my patience
Speaker 1: is evaporating. I check her Jim's public schedule online, an
Speaker 1: open noon class, another at two. No explicit way to
Speaker 1: know which she'll attend, which one Ben is leading, but
Speaker 1: I remember his schedule from old stories. She's told I shouldn't,
Speaker 1: But I call iron Works. The receptionist greets me, Hey,
Speaker 1: iron Works, you looking to book? I steadied my voice. Actually,
Speaker 1: my wife's are regular, Julia wondering if she's in to
Speaker 1: day's class. There's a pause, Ah, I can't give out
Speaker 1: attendance policy stuff. Did you need her for something? My
Speaker 1: mouth goes dry. No, sorry, just worried she forgot her.
Speaker 1: I d thanks. I hang up, feeling grimy. The suspicion
Speaker 1: is eating me from the inside, twisting itself into every interaction.
Speaker 1: But the evidence is everywhere. Morning's marked by class notes
Speaker 1: from Ben, her laughter in his company, the echoing silence.
Speaker 1: Once she returns, I think about my next move. Julia
Speaker 1: always returns home before dinner. It's almost four when I
Speaker 1: hear the elevator open and a series of quick steps outside.
Speaker 1: She comes in, flushed, high color hair wild. There's a
Speaker 1: lightness in her posture, the mood of someone who's left
Speaker 1: trouble elsewhere. Hey, she calls, trying for casual. You've been
Speaker 1: working all day mostly? I lie? How was class? She
Speaker 1: takes off her shoes, unspooling socks, moving quickly, good hard intervals.
Speaker 1: Want me to start dinner sure, or we can order
Speaker 1: up to you? She shoots me a wary glance. The
Speaker 1: default ease between us has eroded, replaced by something brittle.
Speaker 1: She busies herself, soughtezing vegetables, narrating her own movements, filling
Speaker 1: the space with chatter about recipes and failed attempts at
Speaker 1: making clean cookies with her class crew. I stand at
Speaker 1: the counter, watching her with the kind of scrutiny usually
Speaker 1: reserved for strangers. Every gesture seems calculated, too quick, too bright,
Speaker 1: as if she's dressing a stage. The tightness in my
Speaker 1: jaw grows until I can't stand it. I wander into
Speaker 1: the bedroom, sit on the edge of the bed and
Speaker 1: text Andrea, when are you free to night. I need
Speaker 1: to get out for a while, she responds, almost instantly,
Speaker 1: Come over, pizza, whine my treat. I stare at the message,
Speaker 1: half wanting to bolt from the apartment already. When I
Speaker 1: return to the kitchen, Julia's plaiting, stir fried noodles. Her
Speaker 1: smile forced something up, she asks, eyes skimming my face.
Speaker 1: I shake my head. Sister wants to hang. I might
Speaker 1: head over later if that's okay, of course, she says,
Speaker 1: quickly bring her by if you want. I'll probably be
Speaker 1: asleep early. That quick agreement feels like a deflection. I
Speaker 1: take my plate, fork clinking. We eat in silence, chewing
Speaker 1: too loudly. She turns on the t V, half absorbed,
Speaker 1: glancing at her phone. Now and then after dinner, I
Speaker 1: shower off the day, stand under the scalding water until
Speaker 1: my skin numbs. When I step out, Julia's in the
Speaker 1: living room, curled under a blanket, face uplit by the
Speaker 1: soft glow of her laptop. I pack an overnight bag
Speaker 1: mechanical slow. She watches me from the couch, eyes flicking
Speaker 1: with uncertainty. You okay, she asks, I pause, bag half zipped,
Speaker 1: just tired. My head's are mess lately. She hesitates, as
Speaker 1: if considering, then leaves it alone, forcing a smile that
Speaker 1: vanishes before I finish packing. Andrea's apartment is a sanctuary,
Speaker 1: if only because it's not ours. She hands me a
Speaker 1: glass before I fully shut the door. You look terrible,
Speaker 1: she says, with the kind of compassion only sisters can
Speaker 1: get away with. We eat greasy pizza, drink wine, sit
Speaker 1: in silence. Eventually I spill the facts, the notes, the lunches,
Speaker 1: the receipts, Bend's appearances, everywhere Julia is. Andrea doesn't interrupt,
Speaker 1: doesn't judge, just lets the words pile up between us. Mark.
Speaker 1: She says, finally, this is either something she'll own or
Speaker 1: something she'll deny until you drag it out. You can't
Speaker 1: stay in limbo forever. I want to believe her, I
Speaker 1: say quietly. Andrea sighs. It's not about belief. It's about respect, yours, hers,
Speaker 1: whatever's left of both. I crash on her futon, headphones
Speaker 1: jammed deep and music thrumbing through the uncertainty. Sleep comes
Speaker 1: thin and broken. Next morning, I check my phone out
Speaker 1: of habit. No new messages from Julia, just a pinned
Speaker 1: group chap meme about Tuesday coping mechanisms, no direct invitations,
Speaker 1: no reassurances. Andrea offers to call in sick, stay with me.
Speaker 1: I tell her I'll be fine, But I realize as
Speaker 1: I trudge back toward home that waiting is just drawing
Speaker 1: out the inevitable. Julia's not there when I arrive her
Speaker 1: jim bag is gone, keys missing, the smell of her
Speaker 1: perfume already faded from the entryway. I sit on the couch,
Speaker 1: scrolling through bank charges, tracking the now familiar line items
Speaker 1: beefit consult, smoothie bars, the cafe across town. They're too
Speaker 1: regular now to pass off as coincidence. Noon, Julia texts, Hey,
Speaker 1: running late client lunch. Then class want me to pick
Speaker 1: up groceries. After It's so practiced, so insulated from reality
Speaker 1: that I feel my hands clench the phone until my
Speaker 1: knuckle's pale. I know she won't be home for hours.
Speaker 1: I decide I can't wait any more. I'll either rot
Speaker 1: in suspicion forever, or I'll burn down whatever's left of
Speaker 1: this pretense. I take a long walk to the river,
Speaker 1: letting the anxiety pound itself out in my solies, then
Speaker 1: loop back to iron works, arriving just before the afternoon
Speaker 1: class lets out. The gym lobby pulses with energy, music,
Speaker 1: thumping bodies everywhere. I spot Julia and the crowd, hair loose,
Speaker 1: laughing with Ben. They're talking close, oblivious to any one else.
Speaker 1: I stand motionless, letting the scene imprint itself in my head.
Speaker 1: Ben's hand on her arm, Julia leaning in, sharing a
Speaker 1: private joke. I don't confront them in public. That's not
Speaker 1: what I want, not spectacle, not public drama. Instead, I
Speaker 1: turn away, heart galloping, and trudge back towards home, rehearsing
Speaker 1: every word I'm going to say until I can taste bile.
Speaker 1: At home, the apartment is silent. I wait. The hour's
Speaker 1: spill passed in slow drips. Finally, around eight, the key
Speaker 1: rattles in the door and Julia comes in, hair wet,
Speaker 1: cheeks flushed, Jim Baggs swinging at her hip. She sees
Speaker 1: me sitting rigidly at the kitchen table, her eyes narrowing.
Speaker 1: Hey you okay? I nod once, then say quietly, can
Speaker 1: we talk? Julia? Now? The words have a brittle weight
Speaker 1: that can't be ignored. She stops, sets down her bag,
Speaker 1: and lets her arms hang sure, she says, voice barely
Speaker 1: above a whisper. What's going on? I reach into my pocket,
Speaker 1: lay out the note, bend's note on the table between us,
Speaker 1: Then push over my foe screen aglow with the bank transactions,
Speaker 1: the cafe checkins. I place the napkin. The jim receipts,
Speaker 1: a still life accumulation of months of doubt and proof.
Speaker 1: Her eyes scan the items for a second. I think
Speaker 1: she'll try to laugh it off, but the mask flickers.
Speaker 1: What is all this? She asks, eyes glassy. You tell me,
Speaker 1: I say, I try as hard as I can to
Speaker 1: keep my voice even. I need you to be honest now, Julia,
Speaker 1: No more jokes, no more half truths. Are you seeing? Ben?
Speaker 1: Is that what all this is? She doesn't answer right away. Instead,
Speaker 1: she pulls out a chair and sits face in her hands,
Speaker 1: elbows squeezing the note as if she can fold the
Speaker 1: evidence back into nothing. I didn't want to hurt you,
Speaker 1: she says, voice fractured. It wasn't supposed to be this.
Speaker 1: I don't cut her off. The silence yawns between us.
Speaker 1: Somewhere above, a neighbor drags a chair across the floor,
Speaker 1: metal scraping on tile, Are you sleeping with him? I
Speaker 1: say blunt, now past the point of delicacy. Julia drops
Speaker 1: her hands, her eyes rimmed red, finally meet mine. Yes,
Speaker 1: she whispers, as if hoping the truth will land softly
Speaker 1: if she says it quietly enough. The air shakes, My
Speaker 1: chest carves itself hollow for how long a long exhal
Speaker 1: since spring? It started slowly, just drinks post class. I
Speaker 1: was lonely. Mark. You were You made everything feel so
Speaker 1: predictable and flat. I loved you, but I needed something new.
Speaker 1: He Ben. He made me feel alive, alive. My voice cracks.
Speaker 1: You could have told me you weren't happy. You could
Speaker 1: have told me you wanted something different. Julia's jaw shakes.
Speaker 1: I tried. I tried being more present, more fun. I
Speaker 1: tried to wait it out, but then it got complicated.
Speaker 1: Ben wanted, he wanted us to stay quiet. I didn't
Speaker 1: want to choose. I didn't Mark. Some days. I thought
Speaker 1: you knew already, and I wondered if that be easier,
Speaker 1: if you'd force the choice for me. Tears trace fresh
Speaker 1: lines down her face. I clench my fists so tightly,
Speaker 1: I feel my nails dig into palm. I asked you
Speaker 1: over and over. I gave you so many chances. You
Speaker 1: just lied to my face. My own voice is hollow,
Speaker 1: hard as stranger's. She's sobbing freely now. I didn't know
Speaker 1: what to do. I kept thinking I could stop, could
Speaker 1: fix it, But then I'd see him and I'd tell
Speaker 1: myself it was just fun, just energy that you and
Speaker 1: I still meant everything. I thought it would pass. I'm sorry,
Speaker 1: I am. The kitchen light turns her tears to mercury.
Speaker 1: I stare at her, and for the first time in
Speaker 1: my life, I have no idea what I feel. Rage, grief, terror,
Speaker 1: at the hollow space I now inhabit. Did you love him?
Speaker 1: I ask? She hesitates too long, not the same way
Speaker 1: I love you. It wasn't about that. Would you have
Speaker 1: told me? I keep pressing, as if answers could fill
Speaker 1: the ruin she's left. She wipes her nose, shakes her head.
Speaker 1: I thought about it a hundred times. Every time I tried,
Speaker 1: I got scared. You de leave and I'd be alone.
Speaker 1: I was a coward. I know it. I nod once
Speaker 1: my hands shake. Julia doesn't reach for me. The gulf
Speaker 1: is absolute. I stand, kneading air, kneading distance She watches me,
Speaker 1: misery all over her face, but doesn't try to stop me.
Speaker 1: I grab my coat and bag, almost stumbling into the hallway.
Speaker 1: The walls close in old photos of a smiling old
Speaker 1: reminders of the life we'd built on trust and easy jokes.
Speaker 1: I want to rip them all down, leave this shell behind.
Speaker 1: From the kitchen, I hear her voice trembling mark, I'm sorry.
Speaker 1: I swear to God, I never wanted this. I don't
Speaker 1: know what else to say, but there are no words
Speaker 1: that fix this, just an endless, empty ringing. I leave
Speaker 1: the apartment, the door clicking quietly behind me, and descend
Speaker 1: into the heavy dusk, feeling the city fall away beneath
Speaker 1: my steps. The night is thick and close and full
Speaker 1: of things I do not want to feel. I walk,
Speaker 1: bag bumping against my hip, pulling my phone out by rote,
Speaker 1: no idea where to go. I text Andrea. Can I
Speaker 1: come back? She replies in seconds, just text when you're downstairs.
Speaker 1: I keep walking, blocks turning beneath my feet, phone in hand,
Speaker 1: not crying, not yelling, just moving through the space where
Speaker 1: my life used to be. At Andrea's she lets me
Speaker 1: in wordless, hands me water sits beside me in the
Speaker 1: dim living room while t V static murmurs against the quiet.
Speaker 1: I can't answer her questions, can't tell her what comes next.
Speaker 1: I tell her only the facts. She listens, wrapping me
Speaker 1: in a silence that doesn't need fixing. Sleep doesn't come easily.
Speaker 1: I lay on the futon blanket, bunched, phone glowing in
Speaker 1: the dark. Julia text me, I'm sorry. Please please talk
Speaker 1: to me when you can. I delete the message without reply.
Speaker 1: The act, clean and irreversible. Morning breaks through thin blinds,
Speaker 1: painting lines on the floor. I gather myself, moving heavy, sudden,
Speaker 1: with the knowledge that my old life is gone, not paused.
Speaker 1: My phone is silent, save for one muted group chap
Speaker 1: ping plans for brunch. The old routines now shadows of
Speaker 1: what they once were. I text Julia, I'm staying at Andrea's.
Speaker 1: I need space. Please don't call. No reply, not for hours.
Speaker 1: I shove my feet into shoes, walk to a small
Speaker 1: cafe near Andrea's place, order coffee I barely taste. I
Speaker 1: stare at people passing their week ends, intact, their lives unbroken.
Speaker 1: The air is clear and sharp. There is nothing to fix,
Speaker 1: only to leave, to not look back. I grab my bag,
Speaker 1: shouldering its familiar wait, and walk home to gather what
Speaker 1: is mine and only mine. I stand at our door,
Speaker 1: keys in hand, and let myself in one last time.
Speaker 1: The place smells faintly of detergent and old perfume. Julia
Speaker 1: is not there, her shoes are gone, her jim bag missing, half,
Speaker 1: the closet emptied already. I pack my essentials in hard,
Speaker 1: slow movements. Two shirts, jeans, laptop charger, headphones, the napkin
Speaker 1: with the dog doodle, which I finally quietly throw away.
Speaker 1: Nothing else. The rest can wait. I move through the
Speaker 1: apartment only once more, eyes sliding over every object, like
Speaker 1: I'm memorizing a crime scene I'll never revisit. I carry
Speaker 1: my bag to the elevator, stab the button, and step inside.
Speaker 1: As the doors close between me and the life I
Speaker 1: thought I understood. On the balcony of Andrea's high rise,
Speaker 1: the city stretching far below, I look out at all
Speaker 1: the lights switching on one by one. Old Folko toes
Speaker 1: flicker across my phone, and I let them run Julia
Speaker 1: in sunlight, our arms thrown across each other's shoulders, dumb grins.
Speaker 1: Sunday mornings with nothing to do. I let the ache
Speaker 1: come real and simple, and then I put the phone down.
Speaker 1: There won't be a message from her that changes anything.
Speaker 1: I breathe in the night, not healed, not whole, but
Speaker 1: awake to the fact that what's broken can't be re wound.
Speaker 1: The air is colder than I expect, and all I
Speaker 1: can do is stand and let it fill me, waiting
Speaker 1: for the moment when moving forward starts to mean something again.
Speaker 1: I keep my hands wrapped around the railing, knuckles white
Speaker 1: in the blue night, until the cold is more discomfort
Speaker 1: than clarity. Going back inside the apartment is quiet, Andrea's
Speaker 1: left a half eaten bowl of cereal on the counter,
Speaker 1: news humming low from her room. I sit on the
Speaker 1: edge of the fold out head, heavy and tight, and
Speaker 1: scroll mindlessly back and forth until the battery dies. I
Speaker 1: don't move to plug it in. The world feels small,
Speaker 1: everything contracted down to sore joints and an ache where
Speaker 1: trust turns septic. A beep signals a message from Julia,
Speaker 1: her words gray and formal, a thin echo rather than
Speaker 1: a plea. I understand, let me know when you want
Speaker 1: to talk. Logistics, no mention of us, no plea for
Speaker 1: forgiveness or another chance, just the facts, the business of
Speaker 1: dissolving what took so much heart to build. It's a
Speaker 1: mercy maybe, but it knife's through all the same. Andrea
Speaker 1: pads out, rubbing sleep from her eyes. You eat, she asks, yea,
Speaker 1: I lie, voice scraping. She sits beside me. You still
Speaker 1: love her? It's not a question I want to entertain.
Speaker 1: I don't know. I'm not sure love means what it
Speaker 1: did anyway. Andrea shrugs, then leans her head on my shoulder.
Speaker 1: You'll survive, she says, Not a battle cry, just the
Speaker 1: flat honesty that runs in our family. We sit there,
Speaker 1: watching the city blink, and I realize how long it's
Speaker 1: been since I let someone see me at my worst.
Speaker 1: I'm not crying, not storming, just a raw openness, an
Speaker 1: empty page waiting for anything real to write itself across it.
Speaker 1: Mid morning, Julia texts a list of items she'll need, clothes, passport,
Speaker 1: an old sweater her mom gave her once. I reply succinctly,
Speaker 1: I'll box them up. Let me know when to leave
Speaker 1: them with the doorman. She answers, thank you, I won't
Speaker 1: come in, I promise, a few hours later, I'm back
Speaker 1: at the apartment, careful and composed. I bag her things,
Speaker 1: stacking them in the hall, each piece a chapter, the
Speaker 1: Green Scarf from Prague, the Battered Sneakers, the Japanese novel
Speaker 1: she was determined to finish. I still want to find
Speaker 1: a fight somewhere, to bleed out all my anger, but
Speaker 1: I can't summon it, only the numb ritual of sorting,
Speaker 1: of untangling. I glance into the bedroom, sheets rumpled, her
Speaker 1: pillow forever half flat. There's a lonely kind of gravity
Speaker 1: in the space, an outline of who we used to be,
Speaker 1: now just dust and outline. A buzz in the hall,
Speaker 1: the courier sent by Julia, careful not to be the
Speaker 1: one to cross the threshold. He picks up the bags, nods,
Speaker 1: and disappears. I stand for a while, listening to the
Speaker 1: door shut, final enough to etch it in memory. I
Speaker 1: breathe in, filling my lungs with old air, exhaling the
Speaker 1: last thread of hope. I text her short, bags are gone.
Speaker 1: I'll be out by tomorrow. There's a part of me
Speaker 1: still that aches for her words, the ones that might
Speaker 1: tether us to some better version of what we were.
Speaker 1: But nothing comes through her silence is more honest than
Speaker 1: anything she's said in months. Mid afternoon, Andrea comes to
Speaker 1: help box the remainder of my things. There are no speeches,
Speaker 1: no jokes. She packs with swift efficiency, nudging me toward
Speaker 1: the door with kindness disguised as impatience. You don't owe
Speaker 1: her any more time, she says. As I struggle to
Speaker 1: zip my suit case over a lump of old sweatshirts,
Speaker 1: I nod, swallowing the dryness sticking to my throat. The
Speaker 1: day drags forward, no sunlight, just a gray wash at
Speaker 1: the windows. I text my manager out, sick A few
Speaker 1: more days, family emergency, He responds, take what you need.
Speaker 1: It's the first time in weeks I feel vaguely grateful
Speaker 1: for something. After everything's loaded into Andrea's battered prius, I
Speaker 1: stand in the apartments entrance one last time. The echo
Speaker 1: of my own footsteps is unmistakable, echoing empty. Andrea hugs
Speaker 1: me tight. Come on, she says, pizza es getting cold.
Speaker 1: The drive is silent except for the radio mumbling through
Speaker 1: static at her place. I dump boxes along her wall
Speaker 1: and drop onto the feuton, without caring where anything lands.
Speaker 1: Andrea slides a plate beside me. Cold pizza, a bottle
Speaker 1: of water. Sleep, she says, simply this, appearing into her room.
Speaker 1: I pull out my phone, not thinking, and scroll through
Speaker 1: old photos again. I pause at one, a blurry shot
Speaker 1: of Julia laughing in a back booth three years ago,
Speaker 1: my hand reaching into frame, her eyes locked on me.
Speaker 1: There was an ease, then something unnameable and light, now
Speaker 1: replaced by the dull ache of knowing she's elsewhere. I
Speaker 1: let the image linger a second longer, then click off
Speaker 1: the screen. Somewhere inside the box of her returned belongings,
Speaker 1: among the sweaters and souvenirs, I tucked the note Ben wrote,
Speaker 1: next time, don't forget me be I'd meant to toss it,
Speaker 1: to turn it into confetti, but instead I sent it
Speaker 1: back with the rest, just one more remnant. She can't
Speaker 1: deny a piece of the truth. She spun herself into
Speaker 1: knots to conceal. Late that evening, as city lights flicker on,
Speaker 1: my phone vibrates with a single message from Julia. It's
Speaker 1: just three words. I'm truly sorry. I stare at it
Speaker 1: for a long time, thumb hovering over a reply. In
Speaker 1: the end, I do nothing. There's no version of forgiveness
Speaker 1: that are knots what's now part of us both. The
Speaker 1: apartment is silent except for the hum of traffic below.
Speaker 1: I close my eyes, listening, I imagine her somewhere across
Speaker 1: the city doing the same, and for a moment I
Speaker 1: realize we are finally irretrievably alone, no secrets left, only
Speaker 1: the lives that will now fork apart. I step out
Speaker 1: onto Andrea's balcony, the air biting, cities, stretched and indifferent
Speaker 1: around me. Cold seeps through my shirt, into skin, nerves
Speaker 1: tingling awake where for days they'd been dull. All that's
Speaker 1: left is this, my hands braced against iron rails, the
Speaker 1: imprint of loss still fresh and beneath it, beneath everything,
Speaker 1: the blunt pulse of something else, yes, pain, but also
Speaker 1: the barest root of movement for