Speaker 1: I always hear the apartment door before I see her,
Speaker 1: two soft clicks as she fumbles the key the wheel
Speaker 1: of her suit case, rolling a shallow exhale after stepping
Speaker 1: in from the quiet street. But to night. It's nearly
Speaker 1: one in the morning, and the only sounds in the
Speaker 1: loft are the dry hum of the fridge and the
Speaker 1: faint city whistle of tires on wet asphalt. I'm on
Speaker 1: the living room sofa, cradling a glass of wine. I'm
Speaker 1: not drinking, watching the digital clock nudge past midnight, then
Speaker 1: twelve thirty, then twelve fifty one, every number sticky and slow.
Speaker 1: Zoe's text came at eleven thirty nine. We're still working
Speaker 1: on the gallery, loud, don't wait up. I squinted at
Speaker 1: the screen, reread it twice. She didn't add a heart
Speaker 1: or a kiss the way she used to, just her
Speaker 1: name and a paint palette emoji. She'd never stayed this
Speaker 1: late before, at least not since before we moved in together,
Speaker 1: back when a knight's in the gallery stretched into impromptu
Speaker 1: after parties and she came home brimming with tequila and stories.
Speaker 1: Since then, our rhythms have sinked. She comes straight home,
Speaker 1: step out of her heels, lower herself next to me,
Speaker 1: and ask no demand that I listened to some wild
Speaker 1: tale about an artist's meltdown or a collector's offer. Art
Speaker 1: drama from every angle I never minded. I liked being
Speaker 1: the first to know to night for the first time.
Speaker 1: I'm not so sure that I do. I half heartedly
Speaker 1: google luxury boutique hotels n y C, flipping between tabs
Speaker 1: on my laptop, glancing at the word document where I'm
Speaker 1: cobbling together a half formed itinerary for our anniversary. I've
Speaker 1: been dragging her along with suggestions for weeks, trying to
Speaker 1: prod her into an opinion, a spark, anything, Paris, Santa Fe, Kiyoto.
Speaker 1: She's been slow to respond, always promising soon, Babe. Things
Speaker 1: are just nuts right now. Our anniversary has always been sacred,
Speaker 1: the one part of our relationship we don't reschedule. A
Speaker 1: faint pop from my laptop breaks the silence, a notification
Speaker 1: from the gallery's Instagram account they've tagged Zoe in a
Speaker 1: photo from earlier to night. I click, expecting a group
Speaker 1: shot of artists and curators huddled around canvases. Instead, the
Speaker 1: frame catches Zoe near the edge her hair up, eyes
Speaker 1: squinted in genuine, belly deep laughter, leaning close to a
Speaker 1: man I don't recognize. He's bohemian, all messy, stubble and
Speaker 1: paint stained jacket, holding a glass of wine like its
Speaker 1: part of his hand. Zoe's expression is untethered private. She
Speaker 1: hasn't looked at me that way in a long time.
Speaker 1: I close the laptop harder than I mean to, pinched
Speaker 1: by something sharp and mean. Jealousy maybe, or preemptive loneliness.
Speaker 1: For a second, I consider texting her back, But what
Speaker 1: would I say that I'm proud she's running another late
Speaker 1: night gallery marathon, that I saw evidence she's alive and
Speaker 1: laughing somewhere that clearly isn't here. When she finally slips
Speaker 1: in close to two head damp as if she's run
Speaker 1: through rain or spent too long under the galley's ancient pipes,
Speaker 1: she's barely a silhouette. She peels off her coat, silently,
Speaker 1: keeps to the shadows and showers, with the door barely cracked.
Speaker 1: By the time she settles under the covers, she doesn't
Speaker 1: reach for me. I listen to her breathing, even out
Speaker 1: slow and shallow. I'm stretched by this new aching awareness
Speaker 1: on the outside looking in, not sure how it happened
Speaker 1: or who is responsible. I'm not impulsive or jealous by nature.
Speaker 1: I'm an architect. My mind is built for discipline, for
Speaker 1: weighing tiny misalignments, for trusting in structure. When foundation cracks,
Speaker 1: you don't panic, You assess, you reinforce. You look for patterns.
Speaker 1: But there's no blueprint for this, the slow rearrangement of
Speaker 1: your own home, the quiet slide into unfamiliarity. There's just intuition,
Speaker 1: which I've never trusted. I met Zoe five years ago
Speaker 1: at a gallery opening throne by a mutual friend. It
Speaker 1: sounds trite, maybe, but I spotted her before the wine
Speaker 1: had even smoo the evening. She was standing near a
Speaker 1: wall of harsh, over bright canvases, this splash of color
Speaker 1: and charisma in a room of board art school alumni.
Speaker 1: She could talk to any one, I quickly learned. But
Speaker 1: she didn't default to charm. She wielded it. I spent
Speaker 1: fifteen minutes trying to find a plausible reason to approach her.
Speaker 1: In the end, she noticed me first and asked, is
Speaker 1: that your business casual attempt at blending in or did
Speaker 1: you genuinely think gray was an artistic statement. I think
Speaker 1: I fell in love somewhere in the space between her
Speaker 1: laughter and the perfectly timed eyebrow arch. Early dates were
Speaker 1: electric but easy art walks through the Lower east Side neighborhood,
Speaker 1: scavenger hunts for murals and antique shops, late night rooftop
Speaker 1: conversations about who we wanted to be. She taught me
Speaker 1: how to notice the spaces between things, how a painting's
Speaker 1: negative space could feel more honest than its subject, How
Speaker 1: the right building invited you to stay. I told her
Speaker 1: about my first real commission, how nervous I was to
Speaker 1: get everything right. Her immediate reply, You only ever have
Speaker 1: to get the feeling right. Her passion was the engine.
Speaker 1: When she landed the gallery manager job, she sprinted, she
Speaker 1: redesigned the exhibition calendar, reprinted the upstairs loft herself, started
Speaker 1: hosting open studios and salon nights for emerging artists. It
Speaker 1: wore her thin, but she thrived on momentum, on things
Speaker 1: not quite locking smoothly into place, but humming anyway. I
Speaker 1: admit her world intimidated me. Everyone knew each other, gossiped
Speaker 1: in obscure references, drank too much. After hours, I felt
Speaker 1: like a tourist sometimes, like my role was designated supporter
Speaker 1: outside her, the guy with the quiet smile. We made
Speaker 1: our home together, almost as an extension of our work.
Speaker 1: An open plan loft, exposed beams, original brick, weird little
Speaker 1: architectural artifacts I'd rescued from older bills. We hung abstract prints.
Speaker 1: She brought home from friends a map of Parisian arrondissements
Speaker 1: she'd thrifted, a neon bird lamp that neither of us
Speaker 1: admitted was TACKI I built her a bookshelf from reclaimed wood.
Speaker 1: She filled it with glass vases and little ceramic creatures
Speaker 1: she saved from being trashed After gallery shows. We had
Speaker 1: a routine Sunday breakfasts in pajamas, her feet tucked under
Speaker 1: my legs as she read the arts section aloud, dramatic
Speaker 1: voices for the harshest critics. I'd sketch ideas for projects
Speaker 1: with her perched at the window, humming with satisfaction. She
Speaker 1: believed anniversaries were for making memory. Never dinner at the
Speaker 1: same place, always a different city, a new artist's district
Speaker 1: to get lost in. Last year, it was Mexico City
Speaker 1: Gallery crawls by day, mescal on a rooftop by night.
Speaker 1: We have to always try something we wouldn't do otherwise,
Speaker 1: she said, fingers laced through mine in the darkness of
Speaker 1: our tiny air bum This year, for the first time,
Speaker 1: she flinched at committing works wild. Let's see how things
Speaker 1: land ev The part that scared me wasn't the delay.
Speaker 1: It was how easily she seemed to let the day slide,
Speaker 1: how freely she traded our little traditions for flexibility. Marcus,
Speaker 1: my closest friend since grad school, started calling her world
Speaker 1: charming but slippery. He joined us for drinks, sometimes came
Speaker 1: to her gallery events, played along with the art scene banter,
Speaker 1: but always kept a safe distance. You guys do love danger, ha,
Speaker 1: he joke. He meant the curated chaos, the not quite
Speaker 1: finished walls, the untamed artists. He never said he doubted Zoe,
Speaker 1: but sometimes I felt it radiating off him, a protective skepticism,
Speaker 1: the weight of an outsider looking in at another outsider. Still,
Speaker 1: until recently, I didn't think much of these differences. Our
Speaker 1: relationship was its own architectural project, a scaffolding held together
Speaker 1: by mutual respect and a willingness to accommodate, to compromise,
Speaker 1: even to get lost together when necessary. I trusted her
Speaker 1: with my blueprint, my ambitions, my weaknesses. She asked in
Speaker 1: return only for space and attention. I thought I was
Speaker 1: giving both. Now I wondered if I'd missed some essential detail,
Speaker 1: if she'd started needing something she knew I wouldn't notice.
Speaker 1: A Tuesday and Wednesday, two consecutive late nights, Zoe comes
Speaker 1: home slumped in exhaustion, apologizing as she pulls off her shoes,
Speaker 1: massaging her ankles, blaming artists, temper tantrums and urgent rescheduling.
Speaker 1: I ask if she wants me to pick her up
Speaker 1: to morrow, get her home a little earlier so she
Speaker 1: can actually rest. No. Ev really, I have to go
Speaker 1: straight out with clients after. It's just chaos right now.
Speaker 1: Plus you'd hate it all loud and snobby. She smiles
Speaker 1: to soften the blow, but her eyes dart away. I
Speaker 1: watch her over take out at our kitchen counter. She
Speaker 1: scrolls her phone underneath the table, responding with one word
Speaker 1: texts before flipping it upside down. When I bring up
Speaker 1: up our anniversary, she offers a bland, dismissive smile. Let's
Speaker 1: see how this weak shakes out. I mean, if anything
Speaker 1: else can go wrong, it probably will. She sets the
Speaker 1: conversation adrift before I can anchor it. I tell myself,
Speaker 1: she's overloaded gallery. Life always tightens in the spring. Maybe
Speaker 1: she didn't mean to shut me out. But when I'm
Speaker 1: cleaning up after dinner, I pause at the sink. There's
Speaker 1: a wineglass with a faint red smear at the rim,
Speaker 1: lipstick I don't recognize. Zoe never wears red. Before she
Speaker 1: went out that night, though, she lingered over the mirror,
Speaker 1: methodically applying some bold shade, something very not her. I'd
Speaker 1: watched with a curious fondness, teased her, channeling old Hollywood.
Speaker 1: She winked, maybe just bored of being the neutral girl.
Speaker 1: It's such a tiny detail, but it snags at me.
Speaker 1: The glass in the sink, the acquired confidence of someone
Speaker 1: who's not worrying about what I think. I wipe the
Speaker 1: glass clean, force myself not to turn it into more
Speaker 1: than what it is. I resolve for now to believe
Speaker 1: what she tells me. We are both stressed, busy, spiraling
Speaker 1: A little suspecting each other isn't going to help. But
Speaker 1: the hays lingers. The next week, Zoe's answers to my
Speaker 1: questions get blurrier. Just the usual, she says, and her
Speaker 1: face settles into that gallery manager poise, unflappable, practiced artist, drama,
Speaker 1: too many faces to count. Seriously, you're lucky you escaped
Speaker 1: all this. Our kitchen fills with flowers she brings home
Speaker 1: from events, wild exuberant arrangements she claims are cast offs
Speaker 1: or thank yous. But I start to lose track of
Speaker 1: how many events these must be. She forgets to pick
Speaker 1: up groceries twice, texting last minute requests. Can you swing
Speaker 1: by the store? I totally crashed after that meeting. That's Saturday.
Speaker 1: I take a walk to the street market. There's a
Speaker 1: flower stall run by a woman with paint on her hands,
Speaker 1: who flirts with every customer but knows Zoe by name.
Speaker 1: Do you want the usual? She teases, arranging nunculous and
Speaker 1: pops stems. Honestly, she deserves it after those crazy late nights.
Speaker 1: Before I can clarify, another vendor joins our conversation, introducing
Speaker 1: herself as Gabriella. Oh, Zoe's partner, right, you must have
Speaker 1: loved those unreal nights at the studio with her Her
Speaker 1: tone is friendly, not probing. She assumes I am in
Speaker 1: on the routine. I chance a casual reply, which nights. Gabriella, distracted,
Speaker 1: pulls out her phone. Oh, those like last week? After
Speaker 1: the opening, she and Noah stayed till sunrise. It looked wild.
Speaker 1: Her attention veers to her screen, and she excuses herself
Speaker 1: to answer a call. Noah. The name sticks not someone
Speaker 1: I remember from Zoe's regular circle, but the way Gabriella
Speaker 1: says it like short hand an in joke, suggests familiarity.
Speaker 1: I buy the flowers out of habit, carry them home
Speaker 1: like a peace offering, but my anxiety is mounting. That afternoon,
Speaker 1: I decide to check the gallery's public events calendar, pretending
Speaker 1: I'm scouting for a surprise visit. Oddly, some of the
Speaker 1: late night industry events Zoe mentioned don't appear anywhere online.
Speaker 1: There's no evidence of any official gathering at the times
Speaker 1: she's been away private. Probably, I tell myself, not everything
Speaker 1: gets publicized, but the possibility of a lie begins to
Speaker 1: pulse beneath my skin. I try not to treat her
Speaker 1: finances as my business. Still, one evening, as I toss
Speaker 1: my keys on to the credenza. I notice too, cash
Speaker 1: withdrawal receipts stacked on her side of the dresser. Zoe
Speaker 1: never uses cash, always jokes about being a tapango plastic fiend.
Speaker 1: The amounts aren't small, five hundred dollars two weeks in
Speaker 1: a row on week ends when she was supposedly working late.
Speaker 1: I start to notice other shifts. She's picky about where
Speaker 1: we order food, turns down my offers to cook together,
Speaker 1: her old favorite stress relief. She's in the shower longer,
Speaker 1: leaves her phone face down everywhere, screen always locked. There's
Speaker 1: a new password when she won't share because some of
Speaker 1: my contacts are allergic to privacy. She's changed her style,
Speaker 1: two more statement earrings, brighter lipstick, cropped jackets that I
Speaker 1: haven't seen before. One rainy Thursday, I can't take the ambiguity.
Speaker 1: I decide to drop by the gallery after work, under
Speaker 1: the pretense of delivering the new architectural sketches for Zoe's
Speaker 1: upcoming renovation. The place is nearly deserted, just the distant
Speaker 1: drone of a vacuum and a lone figure packing up canvases. Hey,
Speaker 1: I call out, trying to keep my tone light. Is
Speaker 1: Zoe around. The artist looks up, startled. Oh she left
Speaker 1: a while ago, said she had plans. He laughs like
Speaker 1: it's a private joke, then shrugs, you just missed her.
Speaker 1: When Zoe comes home that night, she pauses when she
Speaker 1: sees me in the kitchen For a split second. She
Speaker 1: looks surprised, almost caught. Then she pours two glasses of wine.
Speaker 1: Her movements fluid over, compensating with practiced warmth. You're up late,
Speaker 1: Everything okay with work? I press for details, who was
Speaker 1: at the gallery, how the night went, how she's handling
Speaker 1: the new artist. She's defensive, flicking through vague responses and
Speaker 1: finally sharpening. We're just trying to make this exhibition work, Evan,
Speaker 1: There's nothing more to it. I don't know why you're
Speaker 1: so interested. All of a sudden, later, when I replay
Speaker 1: the conversation in my mind, I realize how little information
Speaker 1: she actually gave me, How many words she used to
Speaker 1: say almost nothing. The next day, I call Marcus, trying
Speaker 1: to mask my nerves. He listens, letting me spin out
Speaker 1: my circuits of confusion. Look, he finally says, either something's
Speaker 1: up or she's drowning in gallery chaos. You owe it.
Speaker 1: To yourself to clarify. But don't go full detective. She'll
Speaker 1: know and you, he hesitates. You're not the jealous type.
Speaker 1: Don't let suspicion be the story. I try to heed
Speaker 1: his advice, but I can't let go of the tension.
Speaker 1: I tell myself, maybe it really is just work. Maybe
Speaker 1: it's just me standing outside, unable to read the map
Speaker 1: this time Saturday morning, Zoe emerges from the shower in
Speaker 1: a cloud of lavender steam, her eyes soft but distracted.
Speaker 1: Let's do something chill, just us, she proposes, almost as
Speaker 1: if she sends my withdrawal. She pulls out our Sunday
Speaker 1: breakfast gear a day early, slices strawberries, scrambles eggs with asparagus,
Speaker 1: plays French pop music on her phone. For a couple hours.
Speaker 1: Our world clicks back into familiar orbit. We plan to
Speaker 1: visit a new art book shop to maybe catch a
Speaker 1: matine if we're not wiped. She laughs at my puns,
Speaker 1: suggests an outrageous Paris trip itinerary just to bait me.
Speaker 1: We should just fly to Iceland and see where we
Speaker 1: end up, she says, with an impish spark, tracing the
Speaker 1: ridge of my knuckles with her thumb, but by the
Speaker 1: afternoon she turns restless again. Her phone vibrates twice and
Speaker 1: she glances at the screen, slipping into the bedroom for
Speaker 1: some calls. There's a muffled dick exchange, too soft and
Speaker 1: urgent for me to make out, and she re emerges, flustered,
Speaker 1: apologizing that she has to run by the gallery real quick.
Speaker 1: I'll be back in an hour, promise, don't wait up.
Speaker 1: As she leaves, she hesitates at the door, her gaze
Speaker 1: locked on me. I can't quite tell if it's guilt
Speaker 1: or longing, or neither. That night, I unpack the groceries
Speaker 1: and find a crumpled receipt from a boutique hotel in
Speaker 1: her coat pocket. Two nights Stay King bed, signature bar program.
Speaker 1: It's dated last weekend, when she told me there was
Speaker 1: a gallery lock in preparing for a new installation. We
Speaker 1: haven't been to that hotel together. I stare at the
Speaker 1: typed date until the numbers blur. I can't shake the
Speaker 1: sense that I'm circling something I can't name. Part of
Speaker 1: me feels shame for even looking as if privacy is
Speaker 1: a shared liability. Part of me feels managed, kept at
Speaker 1: the perimeter tolerated but not trusted. I want desperately to
Speaker 1: unsee these details, but I can't stop cataloging them. My
Speaker 1: mind churns with new, uglier ideas. Was there someone before?
Speaker 1: Is there someone now? Someone who knows the part of
Speaker 1: her that I've so clearly misplaced. The closer our anniversary gets,
Speaker 1: the more distant Zoe seems. She works late every night,
Speaker 1: texting me erratically, sometimes all warmth and inside jokes, sometimes distant,
Speaker 1: terse assuring me she'll make it up to me soon.
Speaker 1: I stopped pushing for a trip after the fourth vague reply.
Speaker 1: My single email just says, let me know if you
Speaker 1: want to actually plan, otherwise I'll drop it for this year,
Speaker 1: Sitting there, unanswered, passive, aggressive in a way I hate.
Speaker 1: A week later, Zoe surprises me. I want you at
Speaker 1: the next exhibit opening, She declares, all candor and open
Speaker 1: body language. You never come out, and everyone keeps asking
Speaker 1: about you, especially Noah. He's dying to meet you. He's
Speaker 1: the new guy, totally wild, but his art is incredible.
Speaker 1: I want you to see what I've been building. I'm
Speaker 1: taken aback by her warmth, suspicious of its timing, but
Speaker 1: I let the relief win out At the gallery, she
Speaker 1: is radiant, greeting people with hugs, gliding from group to group,
Speaker 1: introducing me as Evan, the architect who keeps this whole
Speaker 1: place from falling over. She pulls me in, makes me laugh,
Speaker 1: even loops her arm through mine for half the night.
Speaker 1: When we finally reach Noah, I shake his hand. He's
Speaker 1: taller than I imagined, wiry, with quick, sharp eyes. So
Speaker 1: you're the mysterious partner, he says, tones smooth but friendly.
Speaker 1: She talks about you all the time. We clink glasses,
Speaker 1: swap banter about buildings versus paintings, and for nearly an hour,
Speaker 1: I almost believe this anxiety is all in my head.
Speaker 1: The event is loud, chaotic, intoxicating. There's champagne and overheard arguments,
Speaker 1: last minute curatorial changes. Zoe at the center like a conductor.
Speaker 1: She comes to me several times, dazzling, attentive, whispering inside,
Speaker 1: jokes in my ear. On the cab ride home, she
Speaker 1: leans her head on my shoulder, apologizes softly. This project
Speaker 1: swallowed me. I know I've been gone, but it's almost done.
Speaker 1: I miss you, ev I haven't said that enough. That night,
Speaker 1: for the first time, in weeks, we reconnect, hungry, desperate,
Speaker 1: like two people finding each other in the dark. But
Speaker 1: the next morning, our brief reunion is shattered. I pick
Speaker 1: up Zoe's phone by reflex, she left it charging in
Speaker 1: the kitchen. The screen lights up with a new message, Noah,
Speaker 1: last night was intense. Call me when you're alone. I freeze,
Speaker 1: reread it three times, then, ashamed, place the phone back
Speaker 1: where I found it. Zoe is still asleep, her arm
Speaker 1: draped across my pillow, face innocent and soft. I feel
Speaker 1: like an intruder in my own house, my own relationship.
Speaker 1: All the comfort I allowed myself was only an illusion.
Speaker 1: I wandered the living room as the city outside begins
Speaker 1: to glow with mourning. The realization is ugly. Either something
Speaker 1: unthinkable is happening, or I'm inventing a reality that isn't there.
Speaker 1: When Zoe wakes, I'm sitting at the dining table, sketching
Speaker 1: aimlessly in an old moleskine. Her mood is chipper. May
Speaker 1: be relieved after the successful show, but I can't find
Speaker 1: a way to bridge the growing gulf. I try to
Speaker 1: watch her closely, how she moves, packs her bag, pulls
Speaker 1: on a new dress, hums while making coffee. It's normal, ordinary,
Speaker 1: it's a mask. I can't dissect everything, okay, she asks,
Speaker 1: noticing my stare. Yea, I lie, pushing out a brittle smile,
Speaker 1: just tired. Congrats on the show. She thanks me, kisses
Speaker 1: my cheek, and heads out the door with the ease
Speaker 1: of someone who's certain nobody's watching. I spend the next
Speaker 1: few days on autopilot, work, brief emails, meetings where I
Speaker 1: can't focus. I cycle through possible explanations for the message.
Speaker 1: Maybe Noah's just over familiar. Maybe their friendship has gotten
Speaker 1: too close, but it's innocent. Maybe Zoe, feeling untethered, is
Speaker 1: simply using him for the adrenaline of a new creek
Speaker 1: creative connection. Artists thrive on intensity. Maybe I'm misinterpreting it
Speaker 1: through the lens of suspicion, but doubt seeps in everywhere.
Speaker 1: I start to notice the small, scattered evidence of someone
Speaker 1: else's presence in our lives. A lidless coffee cup with
Speaker 1: an unfamiliar logo on the counter, a foreign scent on
Speaker 1: Zoe's favorite jacket, A distant, private smile as she scrolls
Speaker 1: through her phone. She spends more time at work but
Speaker 1: refuses my drop in visits, invents exhibitions that don't appear
Speaker 1: on any calendar. Her stories are plausible, just plausible enough.
Speaker 1: I try to distract myself with work, drafting plans for
Speaker 1: a new cowaking space in Tribeca, staying late to revise elevations,
Speaker 1: fixing details that don't matter, just to keep my hands busy.
Speaker 1: My mind, however, refuses to settle. The scenario's multiply. Maybe
Speaker 1: she's hiding anxiety, job trouble, or old wounds. She doesn't
Speaker 1: want to share the truth. I fear stalks the edges.
Speaker 1: I distrust myself for thinking it. One night, I bring
Speaker 1: home take out for us, a rare gesture lately, given
Speaker 1: our mismatched schedules. Zoe is late again, blaming a crisis meeting,
Speaker 1: and arriving harrid, her cheeks flushed, hair wind blown. She
Speaker 1: thanks me, picks at her food, then excuses herself mid
Speaker 1: meal for a quick call with a collector. I hear
Speaker 1: her murmuring in the bedroom. Laughter muted the conversation longer
Speaker 1: than strictly necessary. After she's asleep, I tipped her into
Speaker 1: the kitchen, replaying our earlier conversation. I can't help myself.
Speaker 1: I pull out her purse, searching for some tangible reassurance. Instead,
Speaker 1: I find another hotel receipt, same place as last time,
Speaker 1: similar dates, A room build for two. Gilt singes through
Speaker 1: me as I realize how far I've come from the
Speaker 1: version of myself who trusted absolutely. The next morning, I
Speaker 1: try to confront her indirectly the hotel on laugh yet,
Speaker 1: did you meet a client there? Or was that a
Speaker 1: personal thing? I ask, casual as possible. She doesn't flinch.
Speaker 1: Oh right, that you wouldn't believe how many artists think
Speaker 1: hotel lounges are magic places for negotiations. Honestly, it was exhausting.
Speaker 1: I barely survived the drinks, let alone the endless posturing.
Speaker 1: She moves on, deflecting, and I catch my own reflection
Speaker 1: in the fridge, jaw clenched, shoulders taut. I vent to
Speaker 1: Marcus again, voiced tight. What am I supposed to do
Speaker 1: with this? He's quiet, weighing his words. You need to
Speaker 1: decide how much you trust your own read But if
Speaker 1: you start looking in every corner for confirmation, you'll only
Speaker 1: drive yourself nuts. It could be what you think, it
Speaker 1: could be something else. The only thing you know is
Speaker 1: that your relationship is fraying. The why will matter, but
Speaker 1: only after you talk to her. He's right, of course,
Speaker 1: But the problem is I don't know which part of
Speaker 1: Zoe is still available for the conversation. The city is
Speaker 1: shifting towards summer. Our apartment wants a place bustling with
Speaker 1: shared projects and half baked dreams. Now feels more like
Speaker 1: a holding cell. I keep searching for some pattern, some
Speaker 1: sign I missed. Every conversation, every touch is weighed against
Speaker 1: the unspoken question. I start to remember things differently. Was
Speaker 1: Zoe always this easily startled? Did she always jump when
Speaker 1: her phone buzzed? Did she use to leave the apartment
Speaker 1: without so much as a text about where she was going?
Speaker 1: The ugly answer, maybe I just wasn't looking. Before Sunday,
Speaker 1: she comes home with a tote bag brimming with produce
Speaker 1: and two bottles of organic wine. Let's cook, she says,
Speaker 1: cheerier than I've seen in weeks. For an hour, it
Speaker 1: feels normal. She plays music, debates the best way to
Speaker 1: char green beans, sprinkles flur to cell across a for
Speaker 1: catcher like she's blessing it. She seems to want to
Speaker 1: fold me back into her orbit, but I hesitate. Is
Speaker 1: she repenting or just hiding better? As we eat, she
Speaker 1: asks about my work, listens with an attentiveness that's almost painful.
Speaker 1: When I mention a meeting with city planners, she folds
Speaker 1: her hands, leans forward. You're so patient with politics. I
Speaker 1: don't know how you deal with so many egos every day.
Speaker 1: The compliment doesn't land the way it used to. I
Speaker 1: want to believe it, but a shadow hovers behind every word.
Speaker 1: I muster up the courage to ask, do you ever
Speaker 1: wish you de chosen something less consuming? She considers this,
Speaker 1: picking at her salad. Honestly, I thrive on chaos, you
Speaker 1: know that, But sometimes I wonder what it'd be like
Speaker 1: to be able to just check out, even for a week,
Speaker 1: like She lets the unfinished thought hang, smiles wanly, and
Speaker 1: excuses herself to the bathroom. The intimacy feels both real
Speaker 1: and staged. After dinner, I walk to our bedroom, flick
Speaker 1: on the bedside lamp, and notice another anomaly. Zoe's smallest
Speaker 1: carryon sitting next to the wardrobe, not a usual work bag,
Speaker 1: but the one she uses for overnight trips. I open it, hesitating,
Speaker 1: telling myself I'm just checking for a missing charger or jacket.
Speaker 1: But inside is a pair of chunky, paint spattered boots,
Speaker 1: a dress with a hotel branded laundry tag, and a
Speaker 1: box of artisanal chocolates I've never seen before. I don't
Speaker 1: confront her, not yet. Fear stalls me. If I'm wrong,
Speaker 1: I'll hurt her. If I'm right, everything breaks. It's a haze.
Speaker 1: This period, a day by day oscillation between hope and dread.
Speaker 1: Some days she's animated, inviting me to be part of
Speaker 1: some new gallery brain storm. Other days she's closed off,
Speaker 1: existing outside my reach. We make love only sporadically, now
Speaker 1: hurried and tense, as if sex is penance for something
Speaker 1: neither of us will admit. I try to reconnect her
Speaker 1: to our routines. Let's try that new basque place this weekend.
Speaker 1: She demurs. Worked dinner, rain check. Want to help me
Speaker 1: pick fixtures for the renovation? She brushes me off. Honestly,
Speaker 1: I can barely see straight. Sorry, babe. On our anniversary,
Speaker 1: she's at the gallery again, texting I'll be home as
Speaker 1: soon as I can, love you. I eat take out
Speaker 1: and pour a single glass of wine, leaving hers untouched.
Speaker 1: That night, something in me cracks. I start going through
Speaker 1: old photos, our first trip together, birthday dinners, little polaroids
Speaker 1: of us painting the apartment. In each one, she's luminous,
Speaker 1: her attention direct, playful, indisputable. Now her presence feels provisional,
Speaker 1: as if she scheduled me between meetings. She comes home
Speaker 1: after midnight, exhausted and tipsy, shoes in hand, hair unbraided
Speaker 1: and wild. I help her into bed and dress her gently,
Speaker 1: but she barely registers it. Love you, she mumbles, before
Speaker 1: rolling away. I drift into sleep, haunted by questions, replaying
Speaker 1: the scraps of evidence, searching for a pattern, hoping for relief,
Speaker 1: fearing the answer. But the cracks are widening, and sooner
Speaker 1: or later, something in me, in her, in us will
Speaker 1: give way, beneath the weight of all we cannot say.
Speaker 1: The following Saturday, I force myself out of the apartment,
Speaker 1: taking the long route across town to the old industrial
Speaker 1: blocks where Zoe's gallery sits, wedged between a reclaimed bakery
Speaker 1: and a nondescript law office. I convince myself I'm just
Speaker 1: passing by a coincidence, But as I linger at the
Speaker 1: corner cafe, stirring a watery Americano. I keep my gaze
Speaker 1: glued to the gallery's glass doors, rain falls in gray
Speaker 1: beads slicking the cobblestones, and I watch a series of
Speaker 1: umbrelled figures filter in, artists with battered portfolios, assistants carrying
Speaker 1: take out bags, a bearded man with a shock of
Speaker 1: greened eyed hair who nods at me in faint recognition.
Speaker 1: I half hope Zoe will spot me through the window
Speaker 1: and wave, but fifteen minutes pass and she doesn't appear. Instead,
Speaker 1: I see Naah, He's unmistakable even from a distance. That
Speaker 1: ragged paint flecked jacket slung over one shoulder, A restless energy,
Speaker 1: charging every moodvement. He talks to Gabriella by the desk,
Speaker 1: gestures widely at some sketch on his phone, then disappears
Speaker 1: toward the rear. Despite the chill, the gallery pulses with
Speaker 1: warmth and drama. I feel like a ghost, pressing his
Speaker 1: nose to the glass. A part of me pushes to
Speaker 1: go in. Another wreakals, unwilling to catch her, Unaware to
Speaker 1: risk playing out my anxieties in public, I text Zoe instead.
Speaker 1: In the area, thought i'd stop by no pressure. If
Speaker 1: you're swamped, I don't expect an immediate reply, and I
Speaker 1: don't get one. Twenty minutes later, my phone buzzes insane here, babe,
Speaker 1: have to reschedule, so sorry. Three. I force a smile,
Speaker 1: flick the screen off. When I check through the window again,
Speaker 1: I see her briefly in the back, head bent over
Speaker 1: a table, Noah leaning uncomfortably close, their silhouettes almost touching.
Speaker 1: She snaps up, glances toward the front, and quickly turns away,
Speaker 1: as if she seen a ghost. I stand and leave
Speaker 1: before she or I can change our script. That evening,
Speaker 1: I cook dinner for us, both mushroom risotto, her favorite,
Speaker 1: the slow stirring, a kind of penance. The food sits
Speaker 1: untouched for over an hour until she comes home. Zoe's
Speaker 1: hair is wind blown, skin flushed, eyes rimmed in tired Lina.
Speaker 1: She sets her bag down and clocks the meal like
Speaker 1: it's a relic from another life. I texted you, she says,
Speaker 1: unwinding her scarf. I'm sorry. Noah needed last minute help
Speaker 1: moving canvasses, and then Gabriella needed a hand with the
Speaker 1: event invites. I should have called. It's fine, I say,
Speaker 1: clearing two untouched bowls. I want to ask about Noah probe,
Speaker 1: even gently, but the fragility in her expression makes me hesitate.
Speaker 1: We go through the motions of the evening quietly. She showers,
Speaker 1: and I hear her humming some tune I can't place
Speaker 1: for a lyric I can't quite catch. The apartment is
Speaker 1: filled with the soft shuffle of her, the clatter of
Speaker 1: cabinet doors, the sigh of the radiators. It's almost tranquil,
Speaker 1: except for the roiling, silent questions. Later, she appears at
Speaker 1: my studio doorway, towel turbaned, one of my ancient T
Speaker 1: shirts draped over her frame. I feel like I'm never
Speaker 1: here lately, she says, voice softer than I expected. Next
Speaker 1: week will be better. I'll make time, I promise. When
Speaker 1: she walks over to kiss me, her lips linger by
Speaker 1: my ear. For just a moment, I let myself believe her.
Speaker 1: But the next day I notice a bruise flowering just
Speaker 1: below her colubun small, unlikely, a blotch that might be
Speaker 1: from hauling art, or just as easily from something more intimate.
Speaker 1: I stare unblinking as she adjusts her blouse in the mirror.
Speaker 1: When she catches me looking. She grins, tugging her lapel
Speaker 1: tighter bruises of the trade, she quips, but her gaze flickers.
Speaker 1: That night, Marcus and I meet for beers at a
Speaker 1: brick walled bar, cold and crowded, with the afterwork set.
Speaker 1: I fill him in, not mentioning the bruise, but sharing
Speaker 1: everything else, the spontaneous openings, the conspicuous absences, the receipt,
Speaker 1: the message from Noah. She's smart, evan, Marcus says, nursing
Speaker 1: his pint. Whatever's happening, she knows how to spin it.
Speaker 1: But just because you're noticing patterns doesn't mean you're wrong.
Speaker 1: This isn't paranoia. There's something new, something she's not sharing.
Speaker 1: I swirl my beer, listening to the unspoken addendum, there's
Speaker 1: something you might not want to know. What if I'm
Speaker 1: just bad at adapting? I ask, maybe art world chaos
Speaker 1: is her normal, and I keep trying to blueprint everything
Speaker 1: you've always done that, Marcus says, But you know, Zoe,
Speaker 1: is there any version of this where she wouldn't just
Speaker 1: tell you? I shake my head, uncertain. She hates feeling trapped,
Speaker 1: but she also hates hurting any one. Marcus leans forward,
Speaker 1: lowering his voice. Then you need to decide whether you
Speaker 1: can honestly live in this ambiguity, because it's going to
Speaker 1: eat you alive. Man. On Thursday, I come home early,
Speaker 1: determined to reclaim at least one part of our day.
Speaker 1: Zoe isn't there. I make coffee, tune into an interview
Speaker 1: she'd recorded on a local art podcast. At one point,
Speaker 1: the host asks her about working late with Noah. Her laugh, airy,
Speaker 1: but tight, fills the apartment. He pushes every button, but
Speaker 1: he gets the vision. Sometimes you have to fight for
Speaker 1: what you want, even if it means missing sleep or
Speaker 1: missing people you love. There's a silence, then she adds,
Speaker 1: but I try to make up for it. I turn
Speaker 1: off the interview and let the room fill with the
Speaker 1: city's hush. When I open Zoe's shared closet, I notice
Speaker 1: one more subtle change. Her stack of gallery named tags,
Speaker 1: usually chronological, layered carefully, is out of order. Two are missing,
Speaker 1: replaced with blank tags labeled private function. I hesitate at
Speaker 1: the threshold, sick with the urge to search. I resist,
Speaker 1: but not completely. That Saturday, Zoe's away again, prepping for
Speaker 1: the next exhibit. I clean absent mindedly, using the hum
Speaker 1: of the vacuum as a shield against my own spiraling.
Speaker 1: As I pull open a lower dresser drawer to pull
Speaker 1: out the vacuum attachment, my fingers brush past a small,
Speaker 1: zipped pouch buried beneath winter scarves, inside a slim silver phone,
Speaker 1: not a main one, but similar model, off brand case.
Speaker 1: I check the battery. It blinks to life, no facial
Speaker 1: I d just a four digit code. My heart stutters.
Speaker 1: Four numbers I try, three twenty six are anniversary. The
Speaker 1: phone unlocks. Gallery of unread messages loads slowly, all from Noah.
Speaker 1: At first, innocent event reminders, jokes about midnight food runs.
Speaker 1: But as I scroll back, the tone shifts, darkens, thickens
Speaker 1: with intimacy. To night meant more than I thought it could.
Speaker 1: One message reads another the way you laughed when the
Speaker 1: paint's spilled. I want to see only that version of you.
Speaker 1: Her replies match the mood. I haven't felt this alive
Speaker 1: in year. You see me scrolling further. I can't decide
Speaker 1: if it's right to want you this much. I sit
Speaker 1: on the bed, cold with adrenaline and dread, unable to stop.
Speaker 1: The last message was from two days ago, two thirteen
Speaker 1: a m Noah, can't stop thinking about you. Need to
Speaker 1: see you alone tomorrow. Her reply after the install, same place.
Speaker 1: I close the phone, shaking. Everything is suddenly agonizingly clear,
Speaker 1: but also as muddy as before. Part of me is
Speaker 1: jarred to realize how much of her stays hidden, how
Speaker 1: seamlessly she moves through parallel truths. When Zoe comes home
Speaker 1: that evening, she's humming an old Nko song. She sets
Speaker 1: her bags down, sighs with contented exhaustion, and pours herself
Speaker 1: a glass of wine. I watch her from across the
Speaker 1: kitchen island, searching for any flicker that she knows what
Speaker 1: I now know. Instead, she seems lighter, relieved, almost I
Speaker 1: was thinking, she says, reading me too easily. We should
Speaker 1: take a week nd up state. She catches my surprise
Speaker 1: and barrels on, nervous, like she has to fill the
Speaker 1: silence before it. Says, too much, no schedules, no work,
Speaker 1: just the two of us. What do you think? What
Speaker 1: about the install? I probe voice steady, I'll delegate. Gabriella's
Speaker 1: got most of it covered. I need you more. The
Speaker 1: words hang there, promising and heavy. For a second. I
Speaker 1: want to give in to let the false relief rap
Speaker 1: around us, but her phone, her real phone, vibrates against
Speaker 1: the counter. She snatches it up before it can buzz
Speaker 1: a second time, glances quickly thumb poised to silence a message,
Speaker 1: just visible let me know. N She sets the phone down,
Speaker 1: eyes skating away from mine. Sorry, probably just Gabriella. I nod,
Speaker 1: pretending to accept. But my internal architecture is fractured, the
Speaker 1: foundation buckling, no structural fix available. I bear sleep that night.
Speaker 1: I want to confront Zoe to name what I found,
Speaker 1: but my mouth goes dry each time I imagine it. What
Speaker 1: if I'm wrong about the meaning, if I demand the
Speaker 1: truth and it's more complicated than I can bear, or
Speaker 1: if she admits everything and the only thing left between
Speaker 1: us is debris. The following afternoon, we're supposed to meet
Speaker 1: Zoe's colleague, Camille and her partner for drinks. Zoe begs off,
Speaker 1: not feeling social, crowds herself on the couch in an
Speaker 1: over large hoodie, Netflix on but barely watched. I make
Speaker 1: tea for us both and sit waiting. Finally, I blurt out,
Speaker 1: do you still want to celebrate our anniversary? Or is this?
Speaker 1: Are we just too busy this year. She hesitates, the
Speaker 1: tiniest crack in her mask. It's not about being too busy.
Speaker 1: I just I want us to feel good again before
Speaker 1: we try to fake it. Does that make sense? I
Speaker 1: can only nod. I want to ask her what would
Speaker 1: make us good again, but I don't. She leans her
Speaker 1: head against my shoulder. The closeness is both balm and salt.
Speaker 1: I sit rigid, wanting to believe, unable to trust. On Monday,
Speaker 1: I swing by the gallery at lunch. Zoe isn't there.
Speaker 1: Noah is setting up canvases with an assistant. I introduce myself,
Speaker 1: feigning casual curiosity. Evan Wright. He grins broadly, hand shake warm,
Speaker 1: a slightly conspiratorial glint in his eyes. Zoe s told
Speaker 1: me so much. Sorry to say, she's running errands half
Speaker 1: the day. You'd think galleries were organized chaos, but it's
Speaker 1: more like just chaos chaos. He laughs. But I sense
Speaker 1: a lair underneath, something practiced about his ease, as if
Speaker 1: he's weighing my reactions. She's amazing your partner, Noah says,
Speaker 1: as casually as an afterthought. I bristle yea she is.
Speaker 1: I keep my response flat. She works hard to hold
Speaker 1: everything together. Maybe too hard sometimes, or not hard enough
Speaker 1: for herself. He shrugs, turns back to his canvases, already
Speaker 1: moving on. The conversation's over before I can push further
Speaker 1: on my way out, Gabriella intercepts me at the front steps.
Speaker 1: You doing o ka. Zoe es been well working too
Speaker 1: hard lately. She'll burn out if you let her. Her
Speaker 1: tone is genuinely concerned, but something in the way she
Speaker 1: says if you let her stings. I try, I say,
Speaker 1: but she's a force of nature. Oh I know. I
Speaker 1: can't keep up with half her crazy hours, especially not
Speaker 1: these new special projects she and Noah keep running off
Speaker 1: to artists. Gabriella winks, then quickly excuses herself. At home,
Speaker 1: I pace the loft, my thoughts, spinning details coalesce, the
Speaker 1: missing hours, the cash, the mutual admiration, the secrecy. I
Speaker 1: want to scream into the brick walls, make the uncertainty resolve.
Speaker 1: But all I manage is a long string of pacing, muttering,
Speaker 1: and anxious glances at the clock. That night, Zoe comes
Speaker 1: home beaming pressed day when better than I hoped, she says.
Speaker 1: Noah's Peace got featured in art now huge boost for
Speaker 1: the gallery. She pulls me close, kisses me soundly, and
Speaker 1: I get a glimpse of the person I first felt
Speaker 1: privileged to know. Want to celebrate, I ask, searching her
Speaker 1: face for guilt, for joy, for anything, transparent rain check.
Speaker 1: She slips away, promising she'll make it up to me.
Speaker 1: Minutes later, through the sliding door, I hear her on
Speaker 1: a call, voice, low, laughter, more intimate than it should be.
Speaker 1: When she's finally asleep, I creep to the living room,
Speaker 1: retrieve the second phone, and copy a few message threads
Speaker 1: on to my own. I tell myself it's a precaution,
Speaker 1: a safety net in case my nerves finally snap and
Speaker 1: I need proof, proof of what I hardly know any more.
Speaker 1: The next evening, Zoe proposes dinner out her treat, a
Speaker 1: rare reversal of rolls. She's animated, eager to hear about
Speaker 1: my projects, gently merciless about my run in with a
Speaker 1: building inspector. For an hour, it's as close to normal
Speaker 1: as we've been in weeks. Midway through dessert, she leans in,
Speaker 1: I know I've been distracted. I'm really sorry, Evan. It'll pass,
Speaker 1: I promise. I want to ask will it, or are
Speaker 1: we just playing at restoration while the rot keeps spreading.
Speaker 1: When we get home, she pulls me toward the bedroom,
Speaker 1: and for a moment, the urgency of her desire surprises me.
Speaker 1: She clings to me as if trying to will something
Speaker 1: lost back into existence. Afterward, she weeps softly back turned
Speaker 1: sorry hormones stress, She whispers. I don't have words to
Speaker 1: comfort her. I don't even know what the truth would require.
Speaker 1: The following day, an envelope arrives at my office, my
Speaker 1: name printed in careful script inside an invitation to a
Speaker 1: private preview at the gallery heavily featuring Noah's new collection.
Speaker 1: The date matches one of the event nights Zoe has
Speaker 1: referenced repeatedly. I R S v P against my better
Speaker 1: judgment that night, Unable to bear the loneliness, I call Marcus.
Speaker 1: I found messages Mark, I whisper. I think it's Noah,
Speaker 1: but I don't even know how to say it out loud.
Speaker 1: He's silent for a long time. You don't have to
Speaker 1: confront her yet, but staying silent is a torture. Chamber Man,
Speaker 1: you won't solve this by out enduring her secret. Decide
Speaker 1: if it's worse to know or not to know. The
Speaker 1: day of the private preview, I find myself standing outside
Speaker 1: the gallery, invitation in hand, watching as guests filter in,
Speaker 1: artists in shaggy wool, couples clutching each other's hands, critics
Speaker 1: with notepads. I make my way inside, heart battering against
Speaker 1: my chest. The first thing I see is Noah mid conversation,
Speaker 1: a drink in hand, flashing his wind burned smile towards Zoe,
Speaker 1: who is radiant in a deep green dress. She spots me.
Speaker 1: Her surprise quickly replaced by performance. Ev you made it,
Speaker 1: she exclaims, pulling me in for a showy embrace. The
Speaker 1: room's energy is a hive laughter, debate, glass is clinking.
Speaker 1: She introduces me to donors, to critics, to artists whose
Speaker 1: names blur in my ears. She doesn't introduce me to Noah. Instead,
Speaker 1: he finds me at the periphery, glass in hand, eyebrows cocked.
Speaker 1: Glad you could make it, he says lightly. Zoe escot
Speaker 1: impeccable taste in art and apparently in company. The words
Speaker 1: feel rehearsed. I force a smile. She has good judgment
Speaker 1: most of the time. He clinks my glass with his
Speaker 1: a wry glint in his eyes. Let's hope she keeps it.
Speaker 1: The rest of the evening passes in a blur of
Speaker 1: forced laughter, half heard conversations, and sideways glances. I catch
Speaker 1: Zoe staring at me more than once, concern etched into
Speaker 1: her brow, as if she's trying to keep two worlds
Speaker 1: from colliding. By the time we leave, I'm hollowed out
Speaker 1: in the cab, Zoe. He wraps her arms around mine
Speaker 1: and whispers, thank you for coming. It meant something. I nod,
Speaker 1: unable to speak. Later, as she showers, her phone vibrates
Speaker 1: Noah again. This time I read the preview without unlocking it.
Speaker 1: You were magnetic to night. My fingers twitch with the
Speaker 1: urge to throw the phone across the room. When she
Speaker 1: climbs into bed beside me, hair smelling of lemongrass, she
Speaker 1: pulls me close. We'll get through this weird patch, she murmurs,
Speaker 1: voice thick with hope or delusion or manipulation. I can't
Speaker 1: tell which. I want to believe you. I whisper more
Speaker 1: to myself than to her. In the darkness. She fails
Speaker 1: to answer for hours. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling,
Speaker 1: counting the cracks in the paint, listening to the distant
Speaker 1: pulse of the city, wondering how much of what's left
Speaker 1: between us is real, how much staged? And how long
Speaker 1: before the answer is out of our hands. When I
Speaker 1: finally stop counting ceiling cracks, the sun is already brightening
Speaker 1: the corners of the apartment, sharpening every shadow. Zoe's arm
Speaker 1: is still flung limply across the covers, her hair a
Speaker 1: wild tangle, face turned away from me. Her presence is
Speaker 1: somehow louder, now that I know, louder than the messages
Speaker 1: in that second phone hidden in my desk drawer, now
Speaker 1: a lead weight in my own home. I watch her
Speaker 1: sleep and tell myself I should feel relief for finally
Speaker 1: seeing the truth. Instead, there's a rawness at the edge
Speaker 1: of everything, Dread, disbelief, an impossible ache in my chest.
Speaker 1: I slip out of bed without waking her, make coffee
Speaker 1: with shaking hands, spill grounds on the countertop the kettle
Speaker 1: screaming feels like an accusation. I barely taste anything. I
Speaker 1: check my email, scroll until my eyes blur, then reread
Speaker 1: the copid message threads on my phone. Each time the
Speaker 1: meaning deepens and hardens. Can't wait to see you again,
Speaker 1: miss your touch after the install, same place. None of
Speaker 1: it can be misunderstood, none of it can be explained away.
Speaker 1: Zoe emerges ninety minutes later, dressed but rumpled, humming the
Speaker 1: same old Neko song as she pads barefoot to the fridge.
Speaker 1: She frowns as she pours orange juice, squints at my back,
Speaker 1: then leans in as if she's only now remembering my existence.
Speaker 1: You're up early. Her voice is gentle, oblivious, but carries
Speaker 1: a forced affection that almost makes me snap. I fight
Speaker 1: myself not to turn, not to ask her on the spot.
Speaker 1: I have to wait, have to find clarity or calm,
Speaker 1: something to steady my voice. I've got calls most of
Speaker 1: the morning, she says, spinning one earring with practiced restlessness.
Speaker 1: Later we could go out, take a walk, She's offering me.
Speaker 1: Scraps moments of attention parceled out between invisible obligations. Maybe
Speaker 1: I answer and see her hesitate at my tone. I
Speaker 1: can hear the new caution in her step, but she
Speaker 1: seems determined to act as if nothing's wrong, as if
Speaker 1: the last few weeks or months were just background noise.
Speaker 1: She leaves for the gallery around ten, echoing me on
Speaker 1: her way out, barley brushing my jaw with her lips.
Speaker 1: The loft collapses into silence. I sit at the dining table,
Speaker 1: phone glowing in the dim light, the second phone tucked
Speaker 1: in my lap. I could delete the texts, put everything
Speaker 1: back where I found it, return to pretending. But every
Speaker 1: minute that passes adds. Wait. I know I can't keep
Speaker 1: up the charade. I call Marcus. He listens to my ragged,
Speaker 1: clipped sentences. You found what you thought you'd find. There's
Speaker 1: a sadness in his voice. No surprise now comes the
Speaker 1: hard part. Just don't burn everything on the way through,
Speaker 1: That's all I'll say. He pauses. Then you're not crazy, Evan.
Speaker 1: Don't let her turn it around. I hang up and
Speaker 1: stare at the bookshelf I built for Zoe, running a
Speaker 1: thumb along the grain. By mid afternoon, I'm useless to work.
Speaker 1: I keep replaying what I know. The receipts in the
Speaker 1: coat pocket, the red lipstick on a wineglass, hotel dates,
Speaker 1: overlapping gallery lockins, frantic messages on a seat, secret phone.
Speaker 1: Their intimacy saturates everything in our home. The desk chair,
Speaker 1: the faded bath mat, the leftover tulips drooping in a glass.
Speaker 1: I start gathering evidence, careful and methodical. The receipts go
Speaker 1: in a folder, the second phone tucked inside an envelope,
Speaker 1: Everything stacked on the coffee table, a record of our
Speaker 1: slow undoing. My hands shake as I lay it all out.
Speaker 1: I dread what comes next. Imagine her face as she
Speaker 1: realizes she's been seen. At seven. Zoe texts running behind,
Speaker 1: starting dinner at the gallery home by nine. I stare
Speaker 1: at the message, then place the phone, her phone, and
Speaker 1: the folder on the coffee table. I can't pace, I
Speaker 1: can't eat. I sit rehearsing a hundred openings, discarding each one.
Speaker 1: When the elevator finally whinds and the front door creaks,
Speaker 1: my body thrumbs, sick with anticipation. She steps inside, talking
Speaker 1: before she's even shut the door. It's chaos. Two artists
Speaker 1: nearly got into a fist fight over placement. Gabriella's laptop crashed,
Speaker 1: Noah had to restart half his install God, I need
Speaker 1: a shower and a new brain. She's almost back to herself,
Speaker 1: vivid and exhaling with relief. But the moment she sees
Speaker 1: me waiting, sees the folder and the extra phone. Her
Speaker 1: face freezes. Her purse slips from her hand and lands
Speaker 1: with a soft thud. We're both silent while she surveys
Speaker 1: the evidence, jaw tight, cheeks flushing. She tries to speak,
Speaker 1: and nothing comes out. I finally say it quietly, How
Speaker 1: long has Noah meant more to you than we do?
Speaker 1: She winces at the wee collapses on to the edge
Speaker 1: of the couch, head in her hands. Even the word splinters,
Speaker 1: half breath, half sob. It's not it's not what you think.
Speaker 1: But her eyes flick rapidly from the phone to my
Speaker 1: face and back. O kay, No, it's bad, But God,
Speaker 1: I don't know where to start. Please can you just
Speaker 1: let me, She gestures at the mess on the table.
Speaker 1: I sit rigid, heart slamming, voice low. You've been seeing him.
Speaker 1: You lied to me again and again. Our anniversary, the hotel,
Speaker 1: all the late night in stalls. You made me think
Speaker 1: I was paranoid. You looked me in the eye and
Speaker 1: said it was nothing. Don't insult me again. She folds forward,
Speaker 1: arms cradling her knees, weeping openly. I never planned any
Speaker 1: of it. Now, he was just work. At first, it
Speaker 1: got blurry. I felt seen, Evan, I felt like art myself,
Speaker 1: Like what I loved wasn't just a job or a
Speaker 1: way to pay the rent. You you always supported me,
Speaker 1: but after a while you stopped really looking. I was
Speaker 1: just moving pieces in your plans. You could have told me,
Speaker 1: I say, dry mouthed, you could have left. Instead, you
Speaker 1: lied over and over. You made me doubt my own instincts.
Speaker 1: She tries to explain, voice quivering. It wasn't just sex.
Speaker 1: I mean, yes, it happened, but it was attention, someone
Speaker 1: reminding me I was alive, that I could be wild again,
Speaker 1: that I had hidden parts left. I know. It doesn't
Speaker 1: excuse it, doesn't, I interrupt, harsher than I intend. You
Speaker 1: made this choice every time you walked out that door,
Speaker 1: every time you left me some half explanation. If you
Speaker 1: needed to feel alive, Why hide it? Why drag me along?
Speaker 1: She's sobbing in earnest, now shoulders shuddering. Because I love you, Evan.
Speaker 1: I never stopped. I was terrified of losing what we built. Nah,
Speaker 1: he isn't you. He doesn't fit anywhere else. I tried
Speaker 1: to stop it, but I shake my head unable to
Speaker 1: listen to the rationalizations. You could have stopped it, but
Speaker 1: you didn't. You kept going, you kept taking. I did,
Speaker 1: She whispers. I was selfish. I didn't know how to
Speaker 1: let go of either world. I kept thinking i'd fix it,
Speaker 1: that if I just finished this next project, got through
Speaker 1: the exhibit, it'd go away, that I'd remember who I
Speaker 1: was without all the noise. But it didn't. I lost
Speaker 1: track of what mattered. I stare at the folder on
Speaker 1: the table, receipts, messages, all the proof I never wanted.
Speaker 1: My mouth is a straight line, hands bald. Was I
Speaker 1: so easy to replace? My voice shakes? She looks up,
Speaker 1: mascara streaked face, shining with regret. No, never, it's because
Speaker 1: you know me so well that I hid it. I
Speaker 1: knew you'd see eventually, you always see. That's what scared
Speaker 1: me most. The words hum between us, vibrating with an
Speaker 1: ache I can't soothe. We sit two exhausted figures under
Speaker 1: the same ceiling, each bargaining with memory and loss, both
Speaker 1: knowing only one way forward exists now Finally, through clenched teeth,
Speaker 1: you can't stay here, Zoe, not to night, maybe not
Speaker 1: ever again. She stands, wipes her cheeks with the back
Speaker 1: of her hand nods I deserve that. She moves numbly,
Speaker 1: mechanically begins stuffing her essentials into a canvas tote. She
Speaker 1: doesn't look around, doesn't say good bye to anything but me.
Speaker 1: I'm sorry, she says, voice scraping the edge of comprehension
Speaker 1: for everything. I'm so fucking sorry. I don't answer. I
Speaker 1: can barely remember how. She lingers at the door, then leaves,
Speaker 1: closing it gently, as if it matters. The apartment echoes
Speaker 1: with her absence. I stand there a long time, everything
Speaker 1: in the loft frozen, her half drunk mug, my abandoned
Speaker 1: sketch book, the art, objects and artifacts of our life.
Speaker 1: My knees almost buckle. I want to scream, or throw something,
Speaker 1: or rewind to a life before secrecy. Instead, I just breathe.
Speaker 1: The world outside is dimming. I gather her forgotten scarf
Speaker 1: and drape it over the back of a chair. Unable
Speaker 1: to move further, I text Marcus, it's done. She's gone.
Speaker 1: He calls. Within minutes, his voice gentle, I'm here if
Speaker 1: you need anything. I don't have anything else to say,
Speaker 1: but his quiet holds me up for a moment. A
Speaker 1: thin scaffold where all my surety used to be. I
Speaker 1: clean up the living room in silence, collecting Zoe's abandoned
Speaker 1: toiletries and stray earrings into a paper bag. Each object
Speaker 1: is an artifact of intimacy. Now orphaned and sad, the
Speaker 1: loft feels cavernous, unstable, Every familiar line suddenly too sharp.
Speaker 1: I carry her things down to the lobby and leave
Speaker 1: them at the desk, asking the doormen to pass them
Speaker 1: on when she comes. No questions are asked, just a
Speaker 1: silent professional nod on the way back up. The elevator's
Speaker 1: hum feels interminable. As I re enter the apartment, Tiredness
Speaker 1: settles in, not just in my bones, but into the
Speaker 1: warren of half built plans scattered across the counter, renovation sketches,
Speaker 1: books to be read, old tickets to places we visited together.
Speaker 1: Our anniversary folder is still on the table, itinerary half formed.
Speaker 1: I cancel our reservations on my laptop. The confirmation email
Speaker 1: refund confirmed Circumstances, C, H, A and g D stays
Speaker 1: open on the screen for the rest of the night.
Speaker 1: I drift between rooms, turning off unused lights, methodically straightening blankets,
Speaker 1: wiping finger prints from forcets. Zoe's scent is still all
Speaker 1: over the place, orange blossom, sharp ink, old books. Every
Speaker 1: time I spot astray posted in a writing or an
Speaker 1: abandoned shoe, I pause, immobilized by memory. I respond to
Speaker 1: her last text, Please let me talk by archiving the
Speaker 1: conversation in my phone unread. Marcus comes over, lets himself in,
Speaker 1: and sits with me in wordless company for an hour.
Speaker 1: He hands me a bier, leaves a new sketch book
Speaker 1: on the coffee table, and finally squeezes my shoulder before
Speaker 1: heading out. You did what you had to, is all,
Speaker 1: he says. That night. I barely sleep. The bed is
Speaker 1: too wide, too quiet. I lie awake, listening for footsteps,
Speaker 1: for the sound of keys in the door, knowing nothing
Speaker 1: will come. The next morning, I send a brief email
Speaker 1: to the gallery staff. I won't be attending future events.
Speaker 1: Please excuse any previous arrangements had one curt line circumstances changed.
Speaker 1: Gabriella replies, almost instantly, a flurry of concern. I don't answer.
Speaker 1: I gather Zoe's remaining personal effects, her favorite pen, a
Speaker 1: chipped espresso cup, a battered copy of a poetry book
Speaker 1: she read aloud to me from once on a rainy Sunday.
Speaker 1: The bag is lighter than I expect. I hand it
Speaker 1: to the doorman again. He doesn't ask questions. Calls come
Speaker 1: in from my parents, my sister. I keep the conversations
Speaker 1: brief and only let myself break once, voice trembling as
Speaker 1: I spit the simplest version of the truth. They offer
Speaker 1: to visit, but I say no. I need the silence,
Speaker 1: the open space. Their voices are kindness I can't bear
Speaker 1: just yet. The apartment is cleaner than it's ever been.
Speaker 1: I run a rag along every surface twice, as if
Speaker 1: that could scrub the memory out. I toss out our
Speaker 1: regular groceries, her brand of yogurt, special coffee, the weird
Speaker 1: jams she bought at the market. I arrange my office,
Speaker 1: clear my desk, and place the reclaimed wood bookshelf square
Speaker 1: against the wall, the way I originally intended before Zoe
Speaker 1: asked to angle it like an invitation. The odd little
Speaker 1: art objects remain. I look at them, wondering which ones
Speaker 1: I bought and which came from her. I am not
Speaker 1: thinking about forgiveness or repair or what comes after to day.
Speaker 1: The only goal is stasis, no new wounds, no old injuries. Reopened.
Speaker 1: Late afternoon, A knock at the front desk, A delivery
Speaker 1: Zoe's keys in a small, nondescript envelope, no note in
Speaker 1: the long hush that follows. I pour a single glass
Speaker 1: of wine, carry it to the window, and stand looking
Speaker 1: over the city. The light is sharp, everything rendered in
Speaker 1: uncompromising clarity, a strange relief. I pack away the event invitations,
Speaker 1: the gallery flyers I had stacked by the door. I
Speaker 1: pile Zoe's books in a neat column by the window.
Speaker 1: The apartment is orderly defined, stripped back. I move with purpose,
Speaker 1: every gesture a small claim of space. Finally, I circle
Speaker 1: the loft, tracing the circuit of all we built together,
Speaker 1: until my hand comes to rest on a little abstract
Speaker 1: sculpture perched by the shelf. Its crooked, charming are thrown together.
Speaker 1: Thing she rescued from an artist's discard pile. For a second,
Speaker 1: it registers as nothing, a minor artifact. Then meaning pushes up.
Speaker 1: This was the first piece she ever brought home, the
Speaker 1: start of her habit of collecting beauty from chaos. I
Speaker 1: wipe a line of dust from its surface and set
Speaker 1: it higher on the shelf, where the afternoon sun lingers
Speaker 1: golden and bright. Standing there, I let the silent stretch,
Speaker 1: the ache settle, the room reassemble itself around me. I
Speaker 1: stand there a long time, palm cupping the lopsided sculpture,
Speaker 1: the last of the sun sliding along its chipped edge.
Speaker 1: The apartment is silent, cavernous, almost pretending at peace, but
Speaker 1: never quite convincing. There's a hollow to it, a sense
Speaker 1: of waiting, as if the walls expect another voice to
Speaker 1: bounce off them. Another set of footsteps running late, another
Speaker 1: splash of chaos. My mind cycles through snippets of noise,
Speaker 1: the laughter Zoe used to bring in, the scolded hum
Speaker 1: of the gallery crowd that always trailed her, the everyday
Speaker 1: questions I should be hearing right now. Do you want
Speaker 1: coffee or tea? Did you see that new building on Bowery?
Speaker 1: What song is that? But there's nothing. Even the distant
Speaker 1: city has dulled to a hush. I take the piece
Speaker 1: to the window, rotate it in my hand, wondering if
Speaker 1: I'm searching for comfort or just proof that something beautiful
Speaker 1: or maybe just ambiguous, can survive breakage. My phone buzzes
Speaker 1: on the table. It's Marcus again. I almost let it
Speaker 1: ring out, but I need the interruption. You holding up,
Speaker 1: he asks. I settle on to the arm of the couch,
Speaker 1: not quite ready to admit exhaustion. I keep expecting her
Speaker 1: to walk in, or to hear myself from three months
Speaker 1: ago telling you I'm overreacting. He sighs, you need anything,
Speaker 1: someone to just fill the space for a bit. I
Speaker 1: shake my head, even though he can't see. Not right now. Thanks,
Speaker 1: though there's a pause. She texted me, he adds, awkward,
Speaker 1: just said she was sorry for everything I told her.
Speaker 1: I'm not taking sides, but she's not well. I don't
Speaker 1: think she's out there celebrating. I almost whisper there's nothing
Speaker 1: to celebrate, but instead I just thank him and hang up.
Speaker 1: After a long moment, I send Zoe's number, Both numbers
Speaker 1: a block command, no more room for what ifs. The
Speaker 1: days that follow are strange, adrift. I work from home
Speaker 1: but produce little. I mean to read, but sentences never land.
Speaker 1: The world outside moves in its endless loop. The buzzer rings,
Speaker 1: the city's cycles through gray and gold and back again.
Speaker 1: I see our neighbors in the hall and nod, awkward greetings,
Speaker 1: as if I'm in perpetual recovery from an illness I
Speaker 1: can't name. A part of me wants something dramatic, a
Speaker 1: final confrontation, tears in the rain, demands and shouting. But
Speaker 1: there isn't that. There's only paperwork to untangle, bills to pay,
Speaker 1: Zoe's remaining packages arriving with her name, a membership renewal
Speaker 1: for a local museum, an invitation for a gallery crawl,
Speaker 1: a handwritten thank you note from a sculptor she'd championed
Speaker 1: at work. I stare at those things, feeling their irrelevance
Speaker 1: in my hands, and a surge of loss in my chest.
Speaker 1: One morning, Gabriella calls, not a text, a real call.
Speaker 1: I almost don't answer. Evan, Hi, I hope this isn't weird.
Speaker 1: I just I wanted you to know. I didn't know.
Speaker 1: I really didn't. I mean, I figured they were close.
Speaker 1: But she trails off, her words, tumbling nervously. Zoe's a
Speaker 1: good person, she insists, as if the defense is for
Speaker 1: her own conscience and not mine. She got lost, made
Speaker 1: no adjust he flares, than he's gone. I almost thank her,
Speaker 1: then realize there's nothing I want from her, no outside
Speaker 1: validation that could clarify what has already played out. Thanks, Gabriella,
Speaker 1: take care, I say, ending it gently. She texts me
Speaker 1: later that she's sorry again. She won't bring it up.
Speaker 1: There's no dramatic spiral from the gallery crowd. Still word
Speaker 1: ripples through Zoe's world. An e mail from a shared
Speaker 1: art friend arrives, tiptoeing around the subject, Sorry, things are rocky.
Speaker 1: If you need to talk, I'm here. I delete it,
Speaker 1: resolving not to scour my own life for gossip any more.
Speaker 1: Some nights, surrounded by all the evidence of Zoe's taste,
Speaker 1: the art, the objects, the books, I imagine her out there,
Speaker 1: reconstructing her world from other people's furniture, other people's attention.
Speaker 1: Has she called Noah or has that too already burned
Speaker 1: down to ash him? Moving on to the next urgent connection,
Speaker 1: the next gallery manager, hungry to be seen. I force
Speaker 1: myself not to care, repeating Marcus's mantra, this part is hers,
Speaker 1: Your part is done. Midweek, a messenger delivers a legal envelope,
Speaker 1: nothing dramatic, just papers for the joint account. I sign
Speaker 1: what needs to be signed, scan it, send it back
Speaker 1: our names separate where once they'd been entwined. I stare
Speaker 1: at her signature one last time before pressing send. The
Speaker 1: finality is less than i'd expected, an emil can't hold heartbreak.
Speaker 1: Later the same day, as I'm carrying out recycling, I
Speaker 1: nearly bump into Noah on the street outside the building.
Speaker 1: He's holding a battered portfolio, sunglasses obscuring his face. Heading
Speaker 1: I assume to a new installation somewhere else. He pauses,
Speaker 1: noticing me. Only when he's nearly past he stops, offers
Speaker 1: a flat Hay. It's not a question or an apology.
Speaker 1: It's nothing, really, just an acknowledgment that we exist in
Speaker 1: the same orbit. Even now. I say nothing back, just
Speaker 1: nod and keep walking. There's nothing I want from him,
Speaker 1: no explanation, no anger left, just tired resignation, the messenger's arrival,
Speaker 1: the random run in. They feel like the world mocking
Speaker 1: the idea of closure. I understand now that closure isn't
Speaker 1: a door slamming or even a vindication. It's the slow, honest,
Speaker 1: acknowledgment that lost continues while the world refuses to change
Speaker 1: around you. That night, I finally open the folder of
Speaker 1: anniversary plans. The itinerary I'd built for Zoe, all the
Speaker 1: highlighted spots, emails to hotel concierges, maps tracing mornings and
Speaker 1: evenings through unknown cities. I delete the document in one motion,
Speaker 1: its bits disappearing into digital nothingness. Then I set aside
Speaker 1: her last keys, two metal slices, now meaningless. Unable to sleep,
Speaker 1: I pull out my old moleskin pencil, peeling from constant
Speaker 1: use for the first time in weeks, I begin a
Speaker 1: design sketch, a rough outline of a space, an atrium
Speaker 1: open to the light, nothing yet resolved. The lines are
Speaker 1: shaky but true. There's no blueprint to follow here. There's
Speaker 1: only the smallest possibility that an empty space, given enough patience,
Speaker 1: can be rebuilt into something that breathes. When dawn cracks
Speaker 1: across the living room, painting the exposed brick with gold,
Speaker 1: the silence finally feels clean, cleared out, waiting, not yet anything,
Speaker 1: but no longer full of ghosts. I leave the sculpture
Speaker 1: by the window, sunlight curling around it, declare the living
Speaker 1: room finished for now, and finally head toward the door.
Speaker 1: I slip on my jacket, lock up behind me, and
Speaker 1: step out, taking air as if for the first time.
Speaker 1: The closing click of the lock echoes briefly, then fades,
Speaker 1: leaving only the living space, the peculiar beauty of absence,
Speaker 1: and the faint warmth of late sun casting new lines
Speaker 1: where old shadows once held. And that is the end.
Speaker 1: Thank you for listening, and I will see you in
Speaker 1: the next one.