Speaker 1: I'm standing at the edge of our living room, a
Speaker 1: glass of cabinet half forgotten in my hand, my back
Speaker 1: against the chip white counter. From here I can see
Speaker 1: the whole scene, the expanse of scuffed hardwood, the cluttered
Speaker 1: coffee table, teetering with half played cards and empty bottles.
Speaker 1: Mark's friends filly near it, with the easy laughter of
Speaker 1: people who have known each other too long to make
Speaker 1: small talk. The old Arctic monkeys record Mark rescue from
Speaker 1: a dusty bin last month, drowns low under their voices
Speaker 1: and their joke's ricochet off the brick walls. It's supposed
Speaker 1: to be a distraction after the week's grind, one of
Speaker 1: those unremarkable Friday nights that blend together. That's how it feels,
Speaker 1: at least right up until it isn't. Mark looks good
Speaker 1: to night, fresh hair, trim old bantee, a burst of
Speaker 1: his usual charisma. He's in this center, grinning and dealing
Speaker 1: cards as crinkled at the edges. Something in me is
Speaker 1: grateful for that, a flickering sense of normalcy. I force
Speaker 1: a little laugh, teasing his friend Simon about a hapless
Speaker 1: play as I carry in a bowl of popcorn. Then
Speaker 1: Anna Mark's oldest friend asks, Hey, Mark, what's her big
Speaker 1: plan for the weakened? Her tone is basically innocent, the
Speaker 1: kind of fill a question you low between runs. But
Speaker 1: Mark stutters, just barely. There's a quick flick of his
Speaker 1: eyes to Simon, then to his hand. He Grinson says, oh,
Speaker 1: you know, run club misery, Maybe sleep the rest of
Speaker 1: my life. It's fast stary to practice jerk. He laughs,
Speaker 1: and Simon chimes him with something about Mark's notorious hangovers.
Speaker 1: But I catched the glitch, not what he said, how
Speaker 1: he said it a flush clembing up his jaw, the
Speaker 1: way his voice slides over the woods like their pebbles
Speaker 1: instead of stones. Anna picks at her nail, either not
Speaker 1: noticing or not caring. The moment passes. Someone ribs me
Speaker 1: about my obsession with the rearranging furniture. Mark tosses a
Speaker 1: hand of rummy on the table. I do my best
Speaker 1: to keep moving, making a show of busying myself in
Speaker 1: the kitchen. The hum of their conversation turns muffle. As
Speaker 1: I close the fridge, grabbing another bottle no one asked for.
Speaker 1: I find my fingers tremble slightly as I twist the
Speaker 1: cap loose. It's not just the question, it's the shadow
Speaker 1: that glances across Mark's expression, the one I've no I've seen,
Speaker 1: aims so carefully his own friends. Mark is usually the
Speaker 1: life preserver in awkward waters, a kind of man who
Speaker 1: fills silence as before they settle. If he doesn't want
Speaker 1: to answer a question, he teases or exaggerates. It never
Speaker 1: reads is awkward, Never like this pause half a bee
Speaker 1: too long. My mind tries to dismiss it, wants to
Speaker 1: believe it's a fluke, a bad week. Yet the rest
Speaker 1: of the night, every stray remarks suddenly sounds double edged.
Speaker 1: After cake, Mark's friends drift home in pairs, toasted on
Speaker 1: cheap wine and left over enthusiasm. He kisses me fleeding
Speaker 1: and goes to clean the glasses, the same ritual he's
Speaker 1: repeated a hundred times, all routine, all so thin. I
Speaker 1: stand there, staring at the sink, wondering if I'm building
Speaker 1: a mountain from a syllable. I catch him glancing at
Speaker 1: me from over his shoulder, then away, as he drops
Speaker 1: a plate into the soapy water, careful to avoid clatter.
Speaker 1: For a second, I want to call him out, what
Speaker 1: was that really? But I don't. Maybe I just can't risp,
Speaker 1: bringing the night to screeching halt over nothing not. When
Speaker 1: we finally had a normal night, I slide my arms
Speaker 1: around Mark from behind, rest my chin on his back.
Speaker 1: He leans into me, but I feel as light flinch
Speaker 1: as muscles before he lost it off. He tells me
Speaker 1: he's grateful our place isn't as much of a mess
Speaker 1: after parties as this old apartment is. Usual, lying, but
Speaker 1: he says it's softer now, that break, that extra defensive smile. Later,
Speaker 1: as we fold the lust through a blanket, Mark's already
Speaker 1: talking about his long run to morrow, how he's starting
Speaker 1: to train seriously for oron club, how he might be
Speaker 1: out early, maybe even before I'm awake. There's an energy
Speaker 1: in his voice, not quite nervous, not quite guilty, just
Speaker 1: a little too lively. When I finally crawl under our
Speaker 1: duviy at night, Mark's already mostly asleep, or pretending. I
Speaker 1: listen to his breeding lengthen my own mind loo bring
Speaker 1: back to Anna's question, the way Mark's answer slid sideways
Speaker 1: and never quite landed. It shouldn't mean anything, but I
Speaker 1: can't help it. The mood has changed, and I can't
Speaker 1: say why that first night I lie awake and that
Speaker 1: little moment replayed and replayed, all quiet and ordinary, but
Speaker 1: I can't seem to tune it out. I tell myself
Speaker 1: it means nothing. That I'm searching for meaning, because my
Speaker 1: own week's been rotten, because working from home has me
Speaker 1: in prominent self doubt. Still, when Mark mutters something in
Speaker 1: his sleep, I can't i'd hear. I spend the rest
Speaker 1: of the night anxiously passing the silence for what I
Speaker 1: didn't hear. It wasn't always like this, with me, reading
Speaker 1: subjects into every stumble. Six years ago, Mark was a
Speaker 1: free floating at hom when I met him at a
Speaker 1: gallery crawl, both of us overthinking bad wine and insolation, art,
Speaker 1: me barely piecing together my first handful of clients and
Speaker 1: fresh at the creative agency, pitching scripts no one had
Speaker 1: asked for. He made me laugh full tilt with that
Speaker 1: gendiv even the first night, when I wore shoes that
Speaker 1: pinched and he wore a paint splotted bomber with just
Speaker 1: enough cockines to make it work. His restlessness was contagious.
Speaker 1: He had this habit of jumping headlong into everything and
Speaker 1: prov classes gorilla pop up events, a doomed chili cookof
Speaker 1: He was never embarrassed to look ridiculous. I loved that
Speaker 1: about him. What balanced us in the beginning was how
Speaker 1: different we were about everything that mattered. I clung to order,
Speaker 1: color coded trailer boards, reminders, chirping at me all day.
Speaker 1: Mark would leave a trail of half skipped steps, turning
Speaker 1: every basic errand into a minor adventure, sometimes deeply annoying,
Speaker 1: more often disarming. Somehow we cobbled a life out of opposites.
Speaker 1: Me an interior designer, forever hunting for colored texture, clarity,
Speaker 1: markus whirling force of jokes, last minute plans, and half
Speaker 1: remembered birthdays. Our friends called us to par couple, which
Speaker 1: we accepted mostly as a joke, but there was truth
Speaker 1: in it. We had our traditions as Saturday wander through
Speaker 1: the farmer's market, arguing about which vickery had the best cours.
Speaker 1: Us Sunday cilt up with back to back indie films,
Speaker 1: standing on borrowed balconies with a glass of cheapsi Angria,
Speaker 1: planning which city to visit next. We built a home
Speaker 1: that was equal parts quaking and functional. Me hunting second
Speaker 1: ten velvet archers, Mark collecting old concert posters he claimed
Speaker 1: were valuable. Work, especially for me, has always been more
Speaker 1: than a job. At my structure, my outlet, my world
Speaker 1: contained within four white walls and high shelves of tile samples.
Speaker 1: After the agency, Marks iways got order. His freelance gigs
Speaker 1: overlap with bursts of creative mania, mostly invigorating, sometimes a challenge.
Speaker 1: Our share of friends orbited us in a loose constellation.
Speaker 1: There was always an after party, a group texting at
Speaker 1: midnight and invite your another half ironic themed dinner. I
Speaker 1: always felt like I knew everyone in Mark's orbit. Our
Speaker 1: circles laid together. His agency friends became my first of
Speaker 1: a crew. My college room. It married his oldest friend.
Speaker 1: It felt safe. But this last year was different. My
Speaker 1: contracts dried up from months a nightmare face where my
Speaker 1: kalander was empty except for forced optimism and anxious spreadsheets.
Speaker 1: At first, being home was liberating pajamas at noon coffee.
Speaker 1: In a real Mark, no sub would crash. Two months
Speaker 1: in I was more isolated than liberated. I missed the
Speaker 1: random compliments from venders, the feeling of being envied by colleagues.
Speaker 1: There were days I went through in sweatpaints, not bothering
Speaker 1: with Muscara, spending ten minutes debating if my new logo
Speaker 1: looked amateur. Mark always claimed it was just a phase
Speaker 1: that I get new clients again soon, and he was
Speaker 1: gracious about it. Still, I felt defective, a background actress
Speaker 1: in my own marriage. Into that forward stepped the running club.
Speaker 1: Mark had always doubled in fitness, like everything, but last
Speaker 1: fall he found this crew, mostly people from local design
Speaker 1: firms and ad agencies, gathering for early morning loots in
Speaker 1: the park, then coffee. I finally found my try. Mark
Speaker 1: sat one Saturday, between bites of kale and ag toased,
Speaker 1: beeming like a kid. I was genuinely happy for him.
Speaker 1: He needed something that wasn't work, some place to pour
Speaker 1: his crazed energy. Sometimes though, I wished he'd involve me more,
Speaker 1: just a lunch, maybe a groupan but it quickly became
Speaker 1: his thing, a whole. Well. They only glimpsed from sippets
Speaker 1: and run club means. He'd loth it with his phone
Speaker 1: face down on the table. I tease him about becoming
Speaker 1: a cult jogger. He'd roll his eyes, kiss me, promise
Speaker 1: to get me into running shape, I'd fain tear me
Speaker 1: the girl who barely owns sneakers. Lately, though there is
Speaker 1: a new rhythm, our usual spontaneity is withered, replaced by
Speaker 1: plans and checkin's routine. Even the sex is different, scheduled,
Speaker 1: not organic, not playful. I find myself reminiscing about those
Speaker 1: first months we skip work just to build pillow forts
Speaker 1: blur John Afnoonzushi wander the city. Mark says he misses
Speaker 1: those days too, but when I described them, he sounds distant,
Speaker 1: as if I'm describing a show he half remembers. I
Speaker 1: try not to take it personally. I blame work, blame burnout.
Speaker 1: But somewhere in my stomach there's restless ache, a sense
Speaker 1: that even small changes have a meaning. A camp laze.
Speaker 1: Monday morning, Mack wakes before me, slipping out the door
Speaker 1: with a scrape of his over running shoes. I stretch,
Speaker 1: peek at my phone. By the time he's back very late.
Speaker 1: This time, he's flushed and jittery, drops his gear by
Speaker 1: the door and heads for the shower with barely a word.
Speaker 1: Usually after he runs, he'll flop on the bed, sweat,
Speaker 1: damp and chatty. Sometimes its complaints about the weather. Sometimes
Speaker 1: it's a story about someone's well playless choice or a
Speaker 1: new donut shop. To day, his hair is slick, his
Speaker 1: skin is shining, but there's something off. When I throw
Speaker 1: a passing comment over my shoulder could run, he shoots
Speaker 1: me a tight grin amazing brutal route. Though I'm dying.
Speaker 1: He's evasive as he towels off. Smells like a shopper
Speaker 1: spicy clone. I don't recognize, not as usual vanilla warm
Speaker 1: set the one I bought him are second Christmas. I
Speaker 1: reach for a joke, upgrading your musk, but he laughs
Speaker 1: and changes the subject almost instantly, Digging into his phone,
Speaker 1: I busy myself with sketching a mood board for a
Speaker 1: potential client, trying not to read too much into it.
Speaker 1: Mark's phone buzzes three times with muted notifications. He glances
Speaker 1: at each, then slides face down on to the window sill.
Speaker 1: He used to leave its gathered anywhere, by the sink
Speaker 1: by the bath room, evenors now it feels like an
Speaker 1: extension of his hand. Later, he's on his laptop muttering
Speaker 1: about agency strategy sessions. I ask of handily, who is
Speaker 1: in the group today? The usual crowd, expecting a rundown
Speaker 1: of familiar names. Instead, he shrugs, just the club leader
Speaker 1: mostly Ben. I could swell. Last week the leader was
Speaker 1: called Sam. I don't press. It's easy at first to
Speaker 1: dismiss these little things as nerves. I remember what it
Speaker 1: was like when Mark started the job at the agency,
Speaker 1: how the pressure built, how his attentions ban slept. Maybe
Speaker 1: I'm just feeling neglected or jealous of his new tribe.
Speaker 1: I grip myself against the rising tide, remind myself the
Speaker 1: couple's drift, that a little mystery isn't disloyalty. But a
Speaker 1: part of me wonders, is this just another phase? Or
Speaker 1: am I the boring homebody? The anchor weighed on his momentum.
Speaker 1: The next day, Mark takes me from his run, saying
Speaker 1: he'll be late. The club is doing the long route
Speaker 1: to day. He says not to wait up. When he
Speaker 1: returns almost two hours later, he's loser, bright eyed, hyper.
Speaker 1: But there's that sent again, sharper and unfamiliar, like a
Speaker 1: cologne sample lifted from a magazine page. I can't help
Speaker 1: but wonder when did he start caring so much about
Speaker 1: how he smells after a run? I let it go,
Speaker 1: or try to. He steps in for a hog, damp
Speaker 1: and laughing. I've rest my hand on his chest, tracing
Speaker 1: the fold in his T shirt. Don't you ever get
Speaker 1: sick of these people? Not yet, he says the words
Speaker 1: just to beat off ligorersol. He tries to pull me
Speaker 1: up off the couch, but I tell him I'm finishing
Speaker 1: a pitch deck that he should take a shower. He
Speaker 1: disappears down the hall. Ten minutes later, music plays softy
Speaker 1: from the bathroom, something loow in moody, not his usual playlist.
Speaker 1: I find myself wondering stupidly if that means something to
Speaker 1: By Thursday, the patterns are harder to ignore. Mark's running
Speaker 1: club meets last longer and longer. On those nights. He
Speaker 1: always showers the second he's through the door. Receipts turn
Speaker 1: up in our shared bank account an arts and coffee bar.
Speaker 1: I don't recognize two cocktails to a new place downtown,
Speaker 1: stuff that doesn't match the running routes. I know that
Speaker 1: week he cancels our usual date night, texting at sixth
Speaker 1: that he is dead on his feet from a brutal
Speaker 1: health session. I tell him to rest, that we can reschedule,
Speaker 1: but truthfully a feel stone. Even in our busiest times,
Speaker 1: Mark used to fight for nights out. Now he's urging
Speaker 1: me to hang with my friends. His tone brittle, almost irritated.
Speaker 1: In a rare moment of spontaneity, I messaged Nina, my
Speaker 1: oldest college friend, for brunch. After we're seated with our
Speaker 1: usual mimoss, my anxiety leaks out. I tell her I'm
Speaker 1: worried Mark slipping away, that there's this distance, this cardiness
Speaker 1: I can't name. Nina gives me a searching look, but
Speaker 1: tries to lighten it. You could always check his Strava.
Speaker 1: If he's doing those epic runs, he must have the
Speaker 1: badge bound to prove it. I laugh, but the idea
Speaker 1: sits wearily in my chest. I realize I've never seen
Speaker 1: Mark post about his runs. Isn't that half the point?
Speaker 1: These days? I joke about being the only person alive
Speaker 1: who hasn't joined a cult a fitness tracking. Nina offers
Speaker 1: to check the club's Instagram with me later, but I
Speaker 1: wave her off, not wanting to seem controlling. At home,
Speaker 1: I poke a round online. The running Club's page is
Speaker 1: full of photos of parks, smiling faces. Straped with medals
Speaker 1: and cups of coal brew. There's Mark in a few
Speaker 1: group shots, one from three weeks ago. He looks sunburned
Speaker 1: mid laugh. I scroll then I notice a pattern. He
Speaker 1: hadn't been tagged in anything recently. The posts had all
Speaker 1: come from a woman named because someone Mark hasn't mentioned.
Speaker 1: I click through Becka's fee. She's there in every club photo,
Speaker 1: always front and center, arms looped around every runner. In
Speaker 1: two photos Marcus closed beside her, though not in the
Speaker 1: last few weeks. My stomach clench is not just because
Speaker 1: beck exists, but because Mark's never brought her up ever.
Speaker 1: I turn my phone off, telling myself not to spiral.
Speaker 1: The suspicion doesn't let up. Now that I'm alert. Everything
Speaker 1: looks different text after midnight, the shiftiness when I ask
Speaker 1: about the group, the way he enters the room, and
Speaker 1: his body seems to change as soon as he sees me.
Speaker 1: Watching shoulders tends, always pausing a beat before answering. One night,
Speaker 1: Mark comes home late from a Thursday run the Telltale
Speaker 1: craft cocktail charged pind An Auriga. He takes his phone
Speaker 1: straight to the bathroom. When I glance in as I
Speaker 1: brush my teeth, the phone is plugged in behind the towels,
Speaker 1: face down, dim so low, I can barely see the
Speaker 1: flush of notifications. He's humming to himself, a forced effort
Speaker 1: to sound careless. I want to ask why he's always
Speaker 1: hiding his phone, but the word stick Saturday morning marks
Speaker 1: up before dawn. I'll be gone a while, trail loop,
Speaker 1: he says, already lacing his shoes in the hallway. Some
Speaker 1: of the group are grabbing smoothies. After I'm barely awake.
Speaker 1: I wave him out, my voice muffled in the pillow.
Speaker 1: A few hours later, on my way back from the
Speaker 1: flower shop, I cut through the old book DISTRICTI City's lifeline,
Speaker 1: and there he is, half way down a block, wearing
Speaker 1: jeans and a navy jacket, talking animatedly to some one
Speaker 1: I can't see from my angle. Nothing about him, says,
Speaker 1: just finished a run. His hair is styled, there's not
Speaker 1: a sweat mark inside. I try to catch a better look,
Speaker 1: but a city bus chucks between us. By the time
Speaker 1: I crossed the intersection, he's gone. My chest is tight.
Speaker 1: When I get home, I make coffee, try to focus
Speaker 1: on my deadlines, telling myself that was probably nothing. Maybe
Speaker 1: he changed after his run. Maybe he's meeting a friend
Speaker 1: about a side project and didn't want to drag me along.
Speaker 1: But hours later, Mark sweeps through the door in fresh
Speaker 1: jog and gear, brandishing a bottle of Press juice. He
Speaker 1: got locky beat rain, he says, nodding at my umbrella
Speaker 1: in the drawing rack. Did you want to head out
Speaker 1: for lunch? I ask, trying to sound breezy. He considers
Speaker 1: just a second too long before answering, Actually, some of
Speaker 1: us are hitting up this new place for post run
Speaker 1: drinks next week. You should come if you want, Maybe,
Speaker 1: I say, I'm sure if he really means it. But
Speaker 1: before I can follow up, phosas will Becca be there,
Speaker 1: he pivots to a story about Simon's disasters Fanta see
Speaker 1: baseball bit. I pretend to laugh, but my joyg's from
Speaker 1: the strain. That night I sleep, Polly the way heavier
Speaker 1: Now I replay each odd moment, the skep date night,
Speaker 1: the unknown clone, the endless foam privacy, the Kafir seats,
Speaker 1: the unfamiliar tone when he says going out the way.
Speaker 1: His loft breaks. If I mention anything about the club
Speaker 1: at brunchwoo Neina the next morning, I break down and
Speaker 1: tell her about seeing Mark in street clothes. She's supportive,
Speaker 1: but pragmatic. Either something's up or your imagining patterns. Either way,
Speaker 1: you probably need to ask directly. So after dinner, when
Speaker 1: Mark comes into the kitchen, a try. You've seemed distant lately.
Speaker 1: I keep noticing things light nights. The running club staff
Speaker 1: is everything all right? My voice cracks midway, which embarrasses me.
Speaker 1: Mark gives a helpless smile, strokes I get that I've
Speaker 1: been stressed. Honestly, works felt like a hamster wheel. I
Speaker 1: don't know. Maybe I do need more time with you.
Speaker 1: I'm just spurned out. You haven't done anything wrong. I
Speaker 1: want to believe him. He reaches for my hand, squeezes it.
Speaker 1: Says we should take a week end, get out of
Speaker 1: the city. We said, God knows, I could use a
Speaker 1: break for a couple of days. I let myself rest.
Speaker 1: Mark is more prisoned. He brings home flowers, makes a
Speaker 1: clumsy joke about my shoe collection, cooks a passable breakfast.
Speaker 1: We even go for a lazy, tipsy walk by the river,
Speaker 1: laughing at nothing. I almost start to believe things are turning.
Speaker 1: I tell myself we just hit a slump. No relationship
Speaker 1: is immune. Sunday, late afternoon, Mark leaves his phone on
Speaker 1: the coffee table. He's in the shower. A notification pops
Speaker 1: up at dinner be seven p m. Cafe junction, be
Speaker 1: like Becka. The time is exactly his next scheduled club night.
Speaker 1: All the hope that's been creeping back drains away. He
Speaker 1: never mentioned dinner. I suddenly remember those club ins to
Speaker 1: grum Post, the fact she's in every picture at the
Speaker 1: post where he's at his side, the lack of recent tags.
Speaker 1: Now there's a private dinner a cafe he's never taken me.
Speaker 1: After Mark leaves for his run that night, I check
Speaker 1: the running club public event calendar. No run is scheduled.
Speaker 1: I scrolled through three months of events. Nothing listed for
Speaker 1: this night or the next. Anxiety makes my hands clammy.
Speaker 1: Every sound in the apartment is too loud. I remember
Speaker 1: last week's receipts are to no coffee cocktails on Thursdays.
Speaker 1: Always Thursdays there long run night. But if the club
Speaker 1: isn't meeting, what is he really doing? Half an hour later,
Speaker 1: Mark messages me sorry, club's running late gradebier. Then heading home,
Speaker 1: he adds, don't wait up The message is breezy, punctuated
Speaker 1: with emojis. I try to focus on work, but after
Speaker 1: two paragraphs I give up. Eventually, I throw on a jacket,
Speaker 1: nothing fancy, hair up lit, balm, nondescript. I tell myself,
Speaker 1: I'm just going for air. I'll leave my phone at
Speaker 1: home so I can't be tracked. Breathing shallow. As I
Speaker 1: step into the noise of the city, I I feel
Speaker 1: like a bad actor in a bad play. The needy
Speaker 1: wife sneaking around the walk to caffege junction is only
Speaker 1: twenty minutes. It's long, between beautiques and a butcher's shop,
Speaker 1: all warm lighting and gleaming wood grain through the glass.
Speaker 1: I stand across the street, feeling foolish, telling myself to
Speaker 1: get a grip. Then I see them, Mark seated in
Speaker 1: the window, clean jeans, casual, black jacket, different from his
Speaker 1: usual gear, across from an auburn haired woman with sharp
Speaker 1: features and a familiar wide smile, Becka from the running
Speaker 1: club photos. They're laughing, leaning across the narrow table, their
Speaker 1: hands just grazing. I should walk away, I know I should,
Speaker 1: but I dart closer. I can't hear everything, but between
Speaker 1: the comings and goings, dishes, clinking, jazz warbling, the low
Speaker 1: rumble of the city. I cash fragments, Becca says lower.
Speaker 1: I hate lying to people. Mark squeezes her hand half
Speaker 1: under the table. It's complicated. I just need time to
Speaker 1: figure things out. She looks near tears, looks at him
Speaker 1: like she wants to believe that makes it better. I
Speaker 1: step back into the shadows, so hot I nearly hit
Speaker 1: the glass behind me. My hand is shaking. I shouldn't
Speaker 1: be here. I shouldn't know this way. A heart flush
Speaker 1: bills in me, not just betrayal, but shame. I feel
Speaker 1: like I'm inraveling right there on a late night street
Speaker 1: in the city. We colders. But it isn't odd the truth,
Speaker 1: is it. I'm left standing, not knowing what's real. Was
Speaker 1: this just a brief, regrettable slip. Or has my marriage
Speaker 1: been dissolving for months? While I painted a Saint wall's
Speaker 1: and filed embassies, my chessys were shame and exhaustion. The
Speaker 1: next morning, after Mark leaves, cheerful, oddly energize, I reach
Speaker 1: out to Becca through the running clubs Instagram, fumbling through
Speaker 1: polite words. This is hard, but could you be honest
Speaker 1: with me? Minutes pass my hand sweat as I read
Speaker 1: and reread what I wrote. Beckam messages back cautiously. I
Speaker 1: am so so sorry. We didn't mean for it to
Speaker 1: happen to started at the end of last year. It
Speaker 1: was just supposed to be a friendship. She apologizes for
Speaker 1: not saying more, for letting it go on. It's been
Speaker 1: a horrible secret. I know I'm to blame. I never
Speaker 1: wanted to hug you. She doesn't volunteer details past the
Speaker 1: fact that it has been months, not weeks. I don't reply.
Speaker 1: Every cub wants to scream, to demand the entire story,
Speaker 1: oory dates, receipts, line by line. But there's a humiliation
Speaker 1: in needing the details, a tremor of self preservation that
Speaker 1: keeps me from asking. I close the chat. Sit on
Speaker 1: my bed in our half made city apartment. Hands preston
Speaker 1: my mouth to stop the shuddering in my chest. I
Speaker 1: am not sure I can face marquiette. But the truth
Speaker 1: is no longer a guessing game. There's only the question
Speaker 1: of how long I will linger on the threshold, which
Speaker 1: version of myself will be left when the next conversation
Speaker 1: finally detonates what remains of my marriage? I make it trough.
Speaker 1: The following days, on a kind of mechanical autopilot, marks
Speaker 1: a round more than usual, brings home fresh bread, chats
Speaker 1: easily about a pitch when at work asks me if
Speaker 1: I want to catch that word documentary. We'd been talking
Speaker 1: about it as if nothing happened, except now I know.
Speaker 1: Every gesture hides the fact that he is capable of
Speaker 1: looking some one in the amy becka his friends, and
Speaker 1: spinning a parallel reality. In quiet moments, strange details rise up.
Speaker 1: Gnashing at my piece, the side of Mark's running shoes,
Speaker 1: not carelessly under the bench by the door, still crusted
Speaker 1: in old mount how the laundry pald never seems to
Speaker 1: include club t shirts on Fridays, only the day after
Speaker 1: the memory of him snapping at me too sharp when
Speaker 1: I mixed his lights and darks. I used to laugh
Speaker 1: these detailed away. Now every triviality feels like a fresh clue.
Speaker 1: I stop moving through our shared routines with ceremony, taking
Speaker 1: inventory coffee in the morning. He drinks his black two
Speaker 1: shugos when tired. Our kitchen's crump dance, bumping hips as
Speaker 1: I reach past for the French press, his hand too quick,
Speaker 1: catching the coffee tin as I almost knock it over.
Speaker 1: For a few days, I try to trick myself into normalcy.
Speaker 1: I spend hour sketching a movewoard for hospitality firms, one bar,
Speaker 1: drawing soft ter cottas and smudge shadows on thick paper,
Speaker 1: fulling pages. But I can't sit still. Every time my
Speaker 1: phone lights up, my stomach knots, wondering if it'll be
Speaker 1: nean A checking in a client or just Mark sending
Speaker 1: a meme. He's already sent his group chat on Wednesday
Speaker 1: at I pass a bathroom, A catch Marked talking on
Speaker 1: the phone. He's angle toward the window. Foyslow, I pause,
Speaker 1: pretending to check a message in the hallway. He's saying, no,
Speaker 1: I can meet by seven, but I can't be late
Speaker 1: back to night. Yeah, no, it's no, not this week.
Speaker 1: Adare's the force casualness. Note he only ever uses around
Speaker 1: strangers or when lying to tell a moock eaters. The
Speaker 1: words mean nothing innocuous, but the tone is off. When
Speaker 1: he emerges, Mark jumps a little as he sees me.
Speaker 1: His smile is a fraction too quick. Just Ben from
Speaker 1: the club, talking last minute stuff for the relay next month. Sorry,
Speaker 1: you need the bathroom. It feels absurd standing in our
Speaker 1: own hallway, tiptoeing around the ordinary, a force, a laugh,
Speaker 1: the statement of someone trying on normalcy. No, just wanted
Speaker 1: to see if he wanted to order take out tonight.
Speaker 1: Mark's face softens. Let's do it, Pete and trash TV.
Speaker 1: We settle into a companionable sprawl on the couch, the
Speaker 1: city melting orange and purple outside our window. For a moment,
Speaker 1: I almost believe nothing is wrong. We argue about Toppins.
Speaker 1: He always wants olives a demand oughto chooks, and he
Speaker 1: cracks open a cheap beer, leans his head against the
Speaker 1: back of the sofa, looking at me from under his lashes. God,
Speaker 1: what would I do without you, he says, only half joking.
Speaker 1: I kiss him, but something in my head clicks side
Speaker 1: was instead of slotting perfectly into place. His hands are
Speaker 1: tender but distant. I taste the tightness just behind his
Speaker 1: bravado gill or perhaps a griefy count name. Later, I
Speaker 1: watch as Mark disappears to the bedrooms, who make a whitkull.
Speaker 1: I sit at the end of the bed after pretending
Speaker 1: to scroll. When he re emerges, he's light, says the
Speaker 1: new project will be a nightmare, but could mean a bonus.
Speaker 1: The performance is so good. I almost say nothing, but
Speaker 1: I do, feeling suddenly childish for asking. He never talk
Speaker 1: about these club people, ben Becca. What are they'd like?
Speaker 1: Should I know them? His posture flickers. He glances at
Speaker 1: his phone, then says, easily, Becca, she's a social chair,
Speaker 1: makes everyone run at six A, and she's a nightmare. Honestly,
Speaker 1: that's not what you said when the club first started.
Speaker 1: I don't know why I say. It's some buried recollection.
Speaker 1: Maybe that he only ever talked about the guys about
Speaker 1: bro energy, not women planning breakfast meet ups. Mark laughs,
Speaker 1: I never said that. Guess she's just kind of intense
Speaker 1: good for the club. Though. He stands stretching, Babe, you
Speaker 1: want to do something Saturday, brunsch at that's botty love.
Speaker 1: Part of me wants to persist, ask about their dinner,
Speaker 1: bee notification about Becca's hands in every Instagram photo. Instead,
Speaker 1: I nod, yeah, brunch would be nice. He kisses my
Speaker 1: forehead lingers, then leaves to brush his teeth. I let
Speaker 1: the moment collapse, unresolved. The next morning, I wake while
Speaker 1: Mark is already gone. His running gear is missing, as
Speaker 1: is the old gray hoodie I co opted last winter.
Speaker 1: There's a coffee muck abandoned on the sink, lips to
Speaker 1: Crington cinnamon dust, which is inexplicable since I haven't worn
Speaker 1: lipstick in three days. A message flash is on my
Speaker 1: phone Hit thirty Today's dead, heading to the office for
Speaker 1: a bit, then hum love you. There is no straw link,
Speaker 1: no squad photer, just page walls of informational text, one
Speaker 1: step up from telling me where the recycling bin is.
Speaker 1: Throughout the day, I keep circling around a restless idea.
Speaker 1: What if I just showed up at one of his
Speaker 1: club nights. I could play support of spouse. I could
Speaker 1: suggest hosting the group at our sum time that the
Speaker 1: thought of being visible, of inserting myself, fills me with
Speaker 1: more dread than relief. That afternoon, I decide to take
Speaker 1: Nin up on her offer from brunch. I taxed Cavin
Speaker 1: Kinney cybersock marks, run club socials with me later pizza
Speaker 1: in spite, she says, yes, of course, I pack a
Speaker 1: bottle of red in my bag, telling myself its research,
Speaker 1: not paranoia. Na's apartment smells like insignse and clean laundry.
Speaker 1: Stuffed with thrifted fines and cacti in chip pots. She
Speaker 1: cues up the club Instagram and straw the pages as
Speaker 1: we eat, scrolling together. Nothing stands out at first, photos
Speaker 1: from weeks prior, then nothing. The group is smaller lately.
Speaker 1: Every post by Becka, who seems to be everywhere, tight,
Speaker 1: smilingly in every single post. Nina flips through, analyzing he's
Speaker 1: only in what tree nothing after March, so weird. I
Speaker 1: click on Becka's account, heart pounding. There's a photo six
Speaker 1: days ago, caption Thursday crew post run drinks. Mark is
Speaker 1: nowhere insight. Was he there and just not wanted in
Speaker 1: the shot? Or did the club not meet at night?
Speaker 1: Or did he just not want to be photographed. We
Speaker 1: searched drava. Nothing new in Mark's feed for two weeks.
Speaker 1: The lust recorded run as a shot so low Loop Downtown.
Speaker 1: Maybe he doesn't like the tracking thing, Nina suggests, but
Speaker 1: she looks and convinced he used to post them all
Speaker 1: the time. When he started, it was a whole bit
Speaker 1: about badger and percentages. My voice sounds flat, even to myself.
Speaker 1: Nina's eyes pours more wine. Listen if he's stepping out
Speaker 1: it won't be on Strava. That would be next leveldom.
Speaker 1: I nod silently, wishing for dumb luck, wishing for anything
Speaker 1: that would just confirm what I fear, or else finally
Speaker 1: let me exhale. We move on to reality TV, but
Speaker 1: my mind refuses to sell. On the way home, past midnight,
Speaker 1: the city feels thin and cold. In my bag, my
Speaker 1: phone buzzes. It's a text from Mark. Hope you and
Speaker 1: Nina got wilds. Tell me stories in the morning. Friday
Speaker 1: passes without incident. Mark is up early, makes pancakes, leaves
Speaker 1: a sticky note in the shape of a cat on
Speaker 1: my laptop. Go crush that pitch, Love you. He texts
Speaker 1: me hard emojis at lunch, then again at four with
Speaker 1: a self deprecating selfie in the elevator. A long day
Speaker 1: feed me. Later that night, curled on the sofa, I
Speaker 1: try for intimacy, sliding my hand over his back, tracing
Speaker 1: the same of his T shirt. He's off, almost needy
Speaker 1: for a minute, then pulls away gently, saying he's too wiped.
Speaker 1: After the run, his phone is tucked between us, pausing once.
Speaker 1: He flinches, then grabs it on, locking with a thumb swipe.
Speaker 1: So fast. I nearly don't register the move cloud drama.
Speaker 1: He groans, then pockets the phone and suggests we order tie.
Speaker 1: I drift off after dinner, half head on his knee.
Speaker 1: When I wake, he's gone the faint glow of the
Speaker 1: bathroom under the door. I slip out of bed and
Speaker 1: find him sitting on the close toilet, shoulders bowed, phone
Speaker 1: press to his ear. He doesn't see me. I know,
Speaker 1: I know what, he says, voice barely more than a whisper.
Speaker 1: I can tonight, No, just no, it has to be later.
Speaker 1: Please don't He must hear something, because the next second
Speaker 1: he clicks off, silence pulses. I flutter through my own panic,
Speaker 1: go back to bed, play dumb. Confront him now. He
Speaker 1: emerges pace on a smile, acts like he forgot toothpaste
Speaker 1: all yours, he says. I stare at him a beat
Speaker 1: too long, but he doesn't falter. I let it slide.
Speaker 1: Saturday comes, Mark disappears to an early trail run. I
Speaker 1: check back his Instagram. She posts a photo from the
Speaker 1: waterfront caption best Mornings are Shared. The photo is taken
Speaker 1: in the city of Marina, near our old favorite restaurant.
Speaker 1: I raised her housework, trying not to check the time,
Speaker 1: as knew Ned is closer. I step outside, desperate for
Speaker 1: fresh air. I almost text Mark lunch, but but I
Speaker 1: leave my phone in my back, embarrass that I don't
Speaker 1: trust myself not to stalk him. Every minute, I walk aimlessly,
Speaker 1: ending up at the used bookstop by habit. As I
Speaker 1: round the corner, my heart shrinks, the same corner where
Speaker 1: I saw Mark him Becka before. There's a cafe across
Speaker 1: the street, windows smudge with condensation. A group of people
Speaker 1: sits aside Mark, Becka and two others I don't recognize.
Speaker 1: There deep in conversation, heads close, laughing. Mark's arm is
Speaker 1: slung over the back of Becka's chair, fingers brushing her
Speaker 1: brow strap as she tilts toward him. They look like
Speaker 1: a couple. If you didn't know him, you'd never doubt
Speaker 1: what they were. I press myself into the shadow of
Speaker 1: the awning and, nerved by my own cowardice for five minutes,
Speaker 1: I stand there, self loathing, rising, unable to look away. Suddenly,
Speaker 1: Becha looks through the window, as if sensing me. I
Speaker 1: step aside, but her gaze slides right over me. Unfocussed,
Speaker 1: the group stands, Mark pays at the counter. Becka decide.
Speaker 1: They leave together, disappearing down the block, not touching, but
Speaker 1: close enough. I watch them until the city swallows them.
Speaker 1: Both shaken. My return home, I spend a now cleaning
Speaker 1: our kitchen, scrubbing in non existent stains. When Mark returns,
Speaker 1: he's in sweats hay, slightly damp. How was the trail?
Speaker 1: I ask? Foist brittle? He grins long beat my best
Speaker 1: Becca wants me to sign up for the Really think
Speaker 1: I should? I shrug, clutching a mug to keep my
Speaker 1: hands steady. You didn't sound excited earlier. Mark shrugs, I
Speaker 1: was tired. She can be persuasive. He kisses my head,
Speaker 1: disappearing into the shower, the smells of his shaber and
Speaker 1: familiar cologne slicing through the citrus of my soap. I
Speaker 1: grit the counter. The urge to smash something rises so
Speaker 1: hard I have to leave the kitchen. Later. I Textnen everything.
Speaker 1: She fires back, You need to ask to night. But
Speaker 1: when Mark emerges, towel wrap around his waist, humming so
Speaker 1: utterly at ease, I can't do it. Fear holds me back.
Speaker 1: I fear of becoming in his eyes, the nagging jealous cliche. Instead,
Speaker 1: I propose, let's take a trip anywhere. It'll Montreal. That
Speaker 1: were beat and b in Hudson. Mark laughs, But there
Speaker 1: is an edge if I get the next campaign. Maybe
Speaker 1: I'm not sure about time off. My heart stings, but
Speaker 1: I make my face blank, joking. Fine, then you're not
Speaker 1: allow to complain about my enness redecorating. He looks at
Speaker 1: me for a long moment, just looks serious, as if
Speaker 1: something nearly slips. Then he shrugs, vanishes to fight with
Speaker 1: a jam dress or drawer. I toss in her on
Speaker 1: that night, heavy with unshaded words. A three A M.
Speaker 1: I listen to Mark snore at the city distant under
Speaker 1: the window. I count cracks on the ceiling, blotting what
Speaker 1: I'll say How, I'll finally ask how the man of
Speaker 1: real answer. But when morning comes I say nothing. Mark
Speaker 1: makes coffee, hands me a mug, makes some sly joke
Speaker 1: about my eyes, and life resumes brittless bunge sugar. Three
Speaker 1: days scatter, Mark comes home later of skips dinner on
Speaker 1: a cub. Nights I find smoothie receipts in the trash,
Speaker 1: sometimes two marked always for here A fragment of a
Speaker 1: napkin from Cafe Junction is wedged in his coat pocket.
Speaker 1: I think about shredding it, about running it under the tap,
Speaker 1: but I can't bring myself to destroy what little EVI
Speaker 1: I have. Midweek, he forgets his phone on the bookshelf.
Speaker 1: For ten second, I stare at it, wondering what I'm
Speaker 1: allowed to do. I pick it up just as Mark
Speaker 1: enters the room. He sees me instantly in the air
Speaker 1: thickens looking for Spotify. I say, too fast, thrusting him
Speaker 1: the phone. He takes it slack shouldered. After that, the
Speaker 1: phone never leaves his side. He showers with it, pockets
Speaker 1: it even during breakfast, set silent alarms I never see.
Speaker 1: I try to keep up of work, but my mind
Speaker 1: loops endlessly. Was it always this obvious? Did I just
Speaker 1: not want to see? Before Friday marks the end of
Speaker 1: the month, I'm mutual friend. Simon hosts a dinner group
Speaker 1: chat exploding with memes and costumed threats. Mark bounces through
Speaker 1: the afternoon, excited, almost manic, choosing outfits, mock debating his
Speaker 1: tie with me, texting Simon every fifteen minutes. I watch
Speaker 1: from the doorway as Mark rides the wave of group banter.
Speaker 1: I joined a conversation, but feel like I'm twenty feet
Speaker 1: under water. Hans numb on my phone. I hear Simon
Speaker 1: ask Mark again, is so big? Plans next week? Ginner
Speaker 1: robe us into another insane run. Mark laughs, says, everyone
Speaker 1: join misery row At six a m. I'll cheer from home.
Speaker 1: The lie is smood now. Simon doesn't notice. Mark's charisma
Speaker 1: is impenetrable. Later at dinner, I catch Mark sneaking off
Speaker 1: to take a call. Ham pressed over his mouth, memoring
Speaker 1: alone in the hallway. Everyone's tipsy, but I see it.
Speaker 1: He returns, apologizing, spinning a story about a deadline. Simon
Speaker 1: offers more wine, and conversation moves on. I keep watching.
Speaker 1: The next morning, I tell Mark I want to go
Speaker 1: to the farmer's market, just us. He jokes about supporting
Speaker 1: my fruit obsession, slips his hand into mine as we walk.
Speaker 1: We stop for pastries. For a blissful hour. It feels
Speaker 1: possible to believe we are just as city dweller's old
Speaker 1: married couple. I laugh at his jokes, leaning for a
Speaker 1: kiss and he lets it. Linger midway home to his
Speaker 1: phone buzzes. He glances at it, screen angled away. I
Speaker 1: try to peek, but see only the start of a
Speaker 1: name in Beeck. His thumb smashes the volume button, hands
Speaker 1: the phone back to his pocket like it's on fire.
Speaker 1: Fat at the apartment, he claims exhaustion, disappears for our nap.
Speaker 1: I find the phone again, this time by the bed
Speaker 1: screen dock. I don't touch it. The next week, I
Speaker 1: look for comfort. I repaint half our hallway, rearrange furniture
Speaker 1: by fresh eucalyptus for the bathroom, scrub everything until my
Speaker 1: nails teer. At night, Mark slides into bed, cold then hot,
Speaker 1: alternately affectionate and distant. One night, after another late run,
Speaker 1: he falls asleep on the couch, mouths sluck. I watch him,
Speaker 1: aching hand twitching to shake him awake, to demand finally
Speaker 1: the truth. Instead, I let resignation settle a dulling mercy.
Speaker 1: The following Thursday, Mark announces another club night. They don't
Speaker 1: wait up, he says, already changing into jeans and a
Speaker 1: button down. The outfit is too nice for running. But
Speaker 1: I don't respond. He races up, cologne heavy hare styled.
Speaker 1: The door clicks behind him. I sit in half light,
Speaker 1: thoughts burning when the clock hits seven twenty. I grab
Speaker 1: my coat and go to cafe Junction. My hands are shaking.
Speaker 1: Mark is there, waiting at a corner table. Becca arrives
Speaker 1: a minute later, coat slung over one arm. They hug
Speaker 1: her cheek rest on his shoulder, his hand on her waist.
Speaker 1: They order drinks. Settle In had spent close together, their
Speaker 1: bodies curved and consciously toward each other. There's a radius
Speaker 1: around them that repels the rest of the world. I
Speaker 1: watch mouth set heart hammering, so heart at aches. I
Speaker 1: inch closer along the window until I can finally catch
Speaker 1: words drifting through the glass. Mack mutters, I wish it
Speaker 1: didn't feel like this. I wish it could. He stops.
Speaker 1: Becky's voice is soft. You don't know me anything, but
Speaker 1: I can't. This can't be forever. Mark creaches for her hand.
Speaker 1: I was flicking left and right, as if hunted. It'll
Speaker 1: get easier, I swear, I just need to figure us out.
Speaker 1: Ye perr everything, ye know I. He drops his voice
Speaker 1: even lower, and Alla catches. I can't help how I feel.
Speaker 1: Becca shakes her head, tipping her chin up. I don't
Speaker 1: want to be the person who ruined some one else's life.
Speaker 1: I'm not that person, muck mock lass. But it's pained.
Speaker 1: It's not that simple. He covers her hand with his.
Speaker 1: I don't want to lose you. I slip away, then
Speaker 1: Vietnam windbiting. My vision blurs, whether from cold or shame,
Speaker 1: I can't be sure that night. Mark returns late. I'm
Speaker 1: rigid in bed as wide open. He slides in, curling
Speaker 1: toward me, trying for tenderness. His breath is warm at
Speaker 1: my neck. Words murmured. I can't parse. I stay still,
Speaker 1: I'm moving. If he notices, he says nothing. The next morning,
Speaker 1: sunlight makes everything look fake, glossy, too bright. Mark suggests brunch,
Speaker 1: pancakes a wark. I plead deadlines hide in my workspace,
Speaker 1: count look him and the I. I tax, Nina, it's real,
Speaker 1: it's happening, She replies, what are you going to do?
Speaker 1: The answer aches in my chest. I don't know. I
Speaker 1: don't know who I am any more, wife, detective fool.
Speaker 1: I sit at the kitchen table, frozen, staring at my
Speaker 1: list of home renovation tasks. The decisions boiled down to
Speaker 1: two columns, now, expose, implode, survive, or keep pretending. At noon,
Speaker 1: Mark texts me a photo of his run route and
Speaker 1: map I know is copied from weeks ago. He asks
Speaker 1: where ill at eat to night. I tell him I
Speaker 1: don't feel well, that I need rest. He texts, love you.
Speaker 1: I close my phone, I make tea. I look at
Speaker 1: our frame, polaroids on the wall. I don't feel anything
Speaker 1: except hide so deeply tired that for a moment, even
Speaker 1: hunger feels like a luxury I can afford. The silence,
Speaker 1: at least is honest. Late afternoon, I sit on the
Speaker 1: fire escape breeding City a while. Mark showers, The water
Speaker 1: runs for half an hour. He emerges, tall, drude, smiling,
Speaker 1: innocently humming. He orders Indian for dinner. We eat in
Speaker 1: front of a Nature's special. A leg's touch. Every accidental
Speaker 1: brush of his knee makes me want to recoil or
Speaker 1: weep or confess everything I know. Want to go for
Speaker 1: a walk. After He asks clear our heads in a while.
Speaker 1: I say for He send it down to nothing. He
Speaker 1: goes to dig through the rucored shelf back in his element,
Speaker 1: plain old arctic monkey's head bobbing. His face is open,
Speaker 1: so ordinary. I wonder how many realities a single person
Speaker 1: can hold uponce, how many lies fit inside a life
Speaker 1: before it splits it the seams. I barely hear what
Speaker 1: he says when he asks you, okay, ye seem far away?
Speaker 1: I almost answer. Instead, I muster a half smile, just
Speaker 1: a lot on my mind. He studies me almost for
Speaker 1: one blistering second, as if trying to puzzle something out.
Speaker 1: Then he looks away, laughs at himself, and lets the
Speaker 1: record spin to static. That night, as he sleeps sprailed
Speaker 1: across a bed like a teenager, I lie awake, mine
Speaker 1: swarming with possibilities. When the city is fully dark, I
Speaker 1: finally slide out pad barefoot, cross cold tile, and stare
Speaker 1: out over the light's chest, heaving. There is no going back,
Speaker 1: not to innocence, not to the life before. But the
Speaker 1: next day comes anyway, and I find myself again, playing
Speaker 1: my part in this gentle apocalypse, the good wife, the
Speaker 1: unsuspecting spous a one who sees all the evidence but
Speaker 1: still searches for a loophole, a reprieve, any excuse not
Speaker 1: to admit the final truth. The city is just waking
Speaker 1: outside our window, a relentless humming machine, but the apartment
Speaker 1: feels cavernous in airlie By the time Mark finally leaves
Speaker 1: for the agency, hair tamed for his chip of my
Speaker 1: own bones feel hollowed out. I brew coffee and let
Speaker 1: its tone cold. Unable to move, I stare at the
Speaker 1: scratch from the table, the spot of red wine on
Speaker 1: the floor from last week's game night, at the new
Speaker 1: ugly silence as that fill the walls each time the
Speaker 1: kept shrieks. I jump. There's energy under my skin, like
Speaker 1: a hornet trapped in a jar. Not the thrill of discovery,
Speaker 1: but the nurse is certainty. There is no plausible deniability left.
Speaker 1: There's no gas light at the end of this tunnel.
Speaker 1: I forget to eat breakfast, waiting for the slap of
Speaker 1: the front door that tells me I'm alone. I set
Speaker 1: my phone on the counter to green up, eyes flicking
Speaker 1: from one group chat to another, as if my friends
Speaker 1: could transmit straight in his through pixels. I don't leave
Speaker 1: the house right away, though I imagine I will storm
Speaker 1: into the city, pound every blot between here and Caffey Junction,
Speaker 1: scream at the first person who looks like they might
Speaker 1: know Mark Rebecca. Instead, I sit on the cold edge
Speaker 1: of the bathtub, knees grit tight, stirring at my reflection
Speaker 1: in the medicine cabinet. My eyes are glassy, rimmed red.
Speaker 1: I want to see rage, decisiveness, anything but the dull,
Speaker 1: half reck resignation. By late morning, I gather every bit
Speaker 1: of the evidence. I have text exchanges with Nina's greenshots
Speaker 1: of Becker's Instagram, the list of unexplained transactions, the run
Speaker 1: club schedule, the side of Mark and Becker, the cafe
Speaker 1: burned on a loop. I lay them out in my head,
Speaker 1: one after another. They have a grim, methodical weight. No
Speaker 1: single piece is a hangman's news, but taken together they
Speaker 1: quill tight, irreversible. For once, there are no more alternative
Speaker 1: explanations left to cycle through. I can no longer tolerate
Speaker 1: the gap between what I know and what I present.
Speaker 1: I clean our kitchen with the necessary ferocity, scrubbing the Countess,
Speaker 1: rinsing muggs, hurling out half melted ice. Keeps because any
Speaker 1: other action would want me entirely. My mind keeps reapling
Speaker 1: Mak's soft blatter as he leaned into beck A cross
Speaker 1: the cafe table, the gentle pressure of his hand over hers,
Speaker 1: the unguarded relief on both their faces. It's see intimacy
Speaker 1: that hurts more than sex. A secret world he carries
Speaker 1: with him, invisible to everyone except her. We're on lunch time.
Speaker 1: I get a message from Mark, running late, going to
Speaker 1: try to sneak in a quick run before meetings. Don't
Speaker 1: wait on me for lunch. Love you. The words make
Speaker 1: me physically ill. Love is a shard draped carelessly over
Speaker 1: a lie. Nina's texts keep hopping in, first checking on me,
Speaker 1: then drifting blunt. You have to confront him, Fabe. You
Speaker 1: can't keep living like this. It's eating you alive. She's right,
Speaker 1: and I know it. But every time I visualize the moment,
Speaker 1: setting it in motion, forcing it to maraveling, I find
Speaker 1: myself back. I want to wait for a moment that
Speaker 1: feels right, while least survivable. I want to confront Mark
Speaker 1: as a person I used to be, not some spectral
Speaker 1: version shirded by distrust. There's no such luxury left. Afternoon
Speaker 1: curdles into evening. I leave the apartment for an aimless walk,
Speaker 1: the city sweating under a pre storm sky. Everything is
Speaker 1: in sharper focus, the glint of every car window, the
Speaker 1: crack in the pavement, the exhauston rising from the graves.
Speaker 1: I walk by cafe junction, unable to stop myself, half
Speaker 1: hoping for a ghost appear in the window. There's nothing
Speaker 1: but the echo of my own steps. I loop back
Speaker 1: with a pathetic, guilty relief. I've waited more than long enough.
Speaker 1: Nothing is going to rescue me from the truth. Mark
Speaker 1: is home when I return, already out of his work clothes,
Speaker 1: sweating slightly, dinner half we made. He's upbeat, slicing peppers,
Speaker 1: humming tunelessly. I watch his hands, steady, quick hands I
Speaker 1: know as well as my own. He glances up, expression
Speaker 1: wide open, almost gallas, and says, hey, you look tired.
Speaker 1: Want a glass of wine? There is a charge in
Speaker 1: the air, thunder to the east. I nod quietly, trying
Speaker 1: to decide whether to start it now or postpone another day.
Speaker 1: My body is strong, so tight, my skin aches. He
Speaker 1: pours a glass, hands it to me, brushes my wrist
Speaker 1: with his thumb, So casual, so practiced. Later I will
Speaker 1: recognize this as a final mercy, the last gesture before
Speaker 1: the real endearing. We eat dinner in a brittle silence.
Speaker 1: Every fork scrape, every drizzle of olive oil over salad
Speaker 1: becomes loaded. I speak as little as possible, afraid of
Speaker 1: the tremor in my voice. Afterwards, I busy myself cleaning up,
Speaker 1: stacking plates, stirring clear of his eyes. I catch him
Speaker 1: watching me once, his gaze searching, then flicking away, as
Speaker 1: if he thinks I might break if he touches whatever
Speaker 1: lies behind the silence. As night orar eyes rains streaking
Speaker 1: the window. I know there's no point in waiting any longer.
Speaker 1: I will not survive another midnight wrapped in this stasis,
Speaker 1: wondering if I'm crazy for what I see or cowardly
Speaker 1: for not speaking. I move to the bedroom, find an
Speaker 1: old hoodie for Mark's agency days, and pull it on
Speaker 1: for armor or nostalgiaer I don't know. Mark knocks at
Speaker 1: the door, asks if I want to cue up an
Speaker 1: episode of some trash shore. I draw it in a breath,
Speaker 1: study the achingly ordinary way his hair falls over his forehead.
Speaker 1: My heart beats loud enough I think he must hear it.
Speaker 1: Can we talk? I force out, voice level but dead
Speaker 1: to flat. He looks surprised, then weary, as if for
Speaker 1: calculating the algebra of the night. Sure, he says, half laughing.
Speaker 1: Is this a serious talk? Or just who forgot to
Speaker 1: buy bread? I let myself have a last second of cowardice,
Speaker 1: then look him full in the eye. Serious. He steps inside,
Speaker 1: closes the door behind him, sits at the edge of
Speaker 1: the bed. His poses a artfull, relaxed, one leg cocked, armsless.
Speaker 1: But now I can see the calculation in it. I
Speaker 1: kneel on the bed, legs folded under me, hans clenching
Speaker 1: the soft well of the old hody. My voice is
Speaker 1: small but unyielding. I know about you and Becca. Mark's
Speaker 1: head snaps up, skin blanching. There is a split second
Speaker 1: of terror, then affection. So finely tune I can see
Speaker 1: every twitch of muscle pacing beneath his skin. He laughs,
Speaker 1: too loud, too brutal. What do you mean, Becca, from runklob,
Speaker 1: I don't budge. I've rehearsed this. If I saw you
Speaker 1: at Cafe Junction and I talked to her, she told
Speaker 1: me how long it'd been going on. I know. Please
Speaker 1: don't lie to me. He opens his mouth, closes it.
Speaker 1: There's a flick of desperate calculation, a search for the
Speaker 1: old plausible deniability. He finds none. He sacts, I'm man,
Speaker 1: suddenly deprived of all scaffolding. It's not what you think,
Speaker 1: He tries, but the words trail out, exposed for the
Speaker 1: nothing they are. I sit very still, My hands shake,
Speaker 1: but my voice is almost even. So tell me Mark,
Speaker 1: what is it? Then? For a moment, all I hear
Speaker 1: is rain, fat and purposeful against the glass. Mark rubs
Speaker 1: his face drove tight. He looks so tired, so Fred
Speaker 1: beert that my heart almost betrays me into feeling sympathy.
Speaker 1: He takes a long breath. It started last year at
Speaker 1: the club, got tighter and we started talking all the time.
Speaker 1: Ben wasn't around much, and Beckett took over planning. That
Speaker 1: was just coffee. At first. I was lonely. I didn't
Speaker 1: mean for it to go anywhere, but we connected. His
Speaker 1: vose cracks on the last word. He pauses, examining me
Speaker 1: for a reaction, then continues each word and effort. It
Speaker 1: just happened one night after Aurora. I was stressed, felt
Speaker 1: like I was losing my mind with work and feeling stuck.
Speaker 1: He gestures vaguely at the room at me. You were
Speaker 1: always busy or sad or just splace else. His face crumples,
Speaker 1: then flares with defensiveness. It wasn't supposed to be this,
Speaker 1: That just it felt easy, alive. My chest aches, but
Speaker 1: I pushed forward. Did you love her? Do you? He winces,
Speaker 1: runs a hand through his hair. No, I mean, I
Speaker 1: don't know. It's not like that. She's different, you know,
Speaker 1: she listens. I could be a mess with her, but
Speaker 1: it's not us. It doesn't feel the same. So you
Speaker 1: needed her because I couldn't give you what you needed.
Speaker 1: My voice is steel, surprising even me. He shakes his head,
Speaker 1: his eyes wet. Now it's not just you, it's me.
Speaker 1: I was tired, tired of feeling like a background character,
Speaker 1: tired of the routine, tired of being small. I wanted
Speaker 1: to feel wanted again. I kept thinking I'll end it,
Speaker 1: I'll cut it off, but every time I tried, it
Speaker 1: just slid back in. I'm so sorry. I'm just sorry.
Speaker 1: The apology is real, but inadequate. Abason catching drops from
Speaker 1: a burst pipe. I slow my breathing, forcing myself to
Speaker 1: ask the last question, why didn't you tell me? Why
Speaker 1: make me crazy? Digging for clues, doubting even my own worth.
Speaker 1: His whole body folds. I was of hurting you, of
Speaker 1: losing everything. I kept telling myself it wasn't real, or
Speaker 1: that I could fix it. Without you knowing. But it
Speaker 1: was real, and I lied, and then I lied again,
Speaker 1: and it just got out of control. I kept waiting
Speaker 1: for a way out that wouldn't destroy us. I nod
Speaker 1: to sliding down. Now unchecked, I can't bring myself to
Speaker 1: comfort him. Not now, did our friends know? He shakes
Speaker 1: his head quick, almost childlike. No, no one. I barely
Speaker 1: told anyone at all. Becky, she ated it. She's been
Speaker 1: telling me to end it for months. I scub my
Speaker 1: hands over my face, stunned by the scope of the
Speaker 1: betrayal's ordinariness, the shallow logic, the way it led so
Speaker 1: slowly into destruction. I find my voice again, then, fierce.
Speaker 1: You don't get to decide who gets destroyed and who
Speaker 1: gets saved. You already ended it. Mark, We're already done.
Speaker 1: He lurches forward, hand half raised. Please, I'll do anything.
Speaker 1: I'll go to counseling, i'll quit the club, I'll cut
Speaker 1: her off. Just don't walk away. We can fix it.
Speaker 1: Now it's my turn to move. I stand wish shredded
Speaker 1: but clear. He broke it. I can't live with this.
Speaker 1: I can't trust you. I just can't. He starts to sob, helpless,
Speaker 1: stuble then on I find what's left of my will,
Speaker 1: what passed him, heart beating its frantic, lonely coat. He
Speaker 1: stays hunched on the bed, crying quietly. I let myself
Speaker 1: watch memorize this, the way's shoulders shake, the age of
Speaker 1: his hand pressed to his eyes, the rawness that once
Speaker 1: would have unlocked every softness in my body. Now I
Speaker 1: can only feel the ache of absence, the yawning, unfillable well.
Speaker 1: My own tears come and fits hot, jest racking, more
Speaker 1: relief than grief at first. I stuff clothes into a tote,
Speaker 1: move on, not a pilot, not caring about matching socks
Speaker 1: or phone charges. Mark doesn't try to stop me, not really.
Speaker 1: He sits devastated, mouthing words that never turn into sentences.
Speaker 1: I tax my sister just coming over. Can I stay?
Speaker 1: Then she calls before I finish sipping my bag, her
Speaker 1: voice full of warmth and worry. In the living room,
Speaker 1: the city lights flicker. I gather my wallet, phone charger, sketchbrook,
Speaker 1: whatever random manger I find. Mark is still crying. I pause,
Speaker 1: only one's hand on the door knob, looking back. He
Speaker 1: lifts his head, face blotched, eyes shining with too many things, regret, terror, loss,
Speaker 1: or just the shock of being found out. He chokes out,
Speaker 1: I'm so sorry. Please just call me, text me, don't
Speaker 1: just disappear. I won't disappear Mark, but I can't come back,
Speaker 1: I say softly. Outside. The city is sharp, metallic, honest.
Speaker 1: When the elevator finally spits me into the lobby, the
Speaker 1: building is almost silent, except for the distant hum of
Speaker 1: pipes and the shudder of garbage trucks on the avenue.
Speaker 1: I step into the night, shoulders hunch beneath. My sister
Speaker 1: is all wrinkled. The air is close and damp, promising
Speaker 1: another long, fathomless night. I text Nina, then, only it's over,
Speaker 1: She responds, immediately, calling if you need me, I'm here always,
Speaker 1: all at once. It's too much. The heart break, the shame,
Speaker 1: the relief, all braided together in a roop that won't
Speaker 1: ever quite snap or unravel. I wait outside for the car,
Speaker 1: shifting on cold pavement, pulling my bag clothes, watching the
Speaker 1: reflection of red and green light slide off puddles in
Speaker 1: the road. The reality is both bigger and smaller than
Speaker 1: I'd imagined. No grand discovery, no armageddon, just a clean
Speaker 1: withering end. In the car on the way to my sisters,
Speaker 1: my hands go num and I clenched the seat, concentrating
Speaker 1: on the city rolling past. Mark sends a flurry of messages, long,
Speaker 1: looping apologies, please to talk, fragments of confessions that change
Speaker 1: and contradict with each text. I silence my phone, letting
Speaker 1: the light blanket strobe in my back. I can feel
Speaker 1: the weaker head gathering like a pressure system. Calls from friends,
Speaker 1: texts I don't want to respond to you, the first
Speaker 1: innocent comment from someone who hasn't heard. I barely find
Speaker 1: words for my sister. When she opens her door, eyes
Speaker 1: huge with concern, she folds me in a hug, says nothing.
Speaker 1: As I drop my bag in the tiny guest room,
Speaker 1: I sit cross like it on the bed, knees tight
Speaker 1: to my chest. For the first time in months, I
Speaker 1: am entirely pimply alone. The next hour string together with
Speaker 1: only small practical movements, hanging up my coat, kicking off boots,
Speaker 1: washing my face with cold water. I text our closest
Speaker 1: friends a single note Mark and now going through something difficult.
Speaker 1: Please don't ask for details. I just need some space.
Speaker 1: Responses striggle and through the evening, a tide of concern
Speaker 1: and confusion. I ignore them all. I dig out my
Speaker 1: sketch book, draw aimlessly lines, shivering and then breaking off entirely.
Speaker 1: I paste the tie any room, counting footsteps from the
Speaker 1: window to the wall, then collapse on the bed, numb.
Speaker 1: I think about our apartment. The ghost sound of markdoing dishes,
Speaker 1: the echo of aftic monkeys bleeding into the hall, the
Speaker 1: shelf of half free books, the plants that will stiffen
Speaker 1: and wilt. I don't let myself call him, not to night,
Speaker 1: not even once. Somewhere in the night, the adrenaline passes,
Speaker 1: and exhaustion comes. When it does, there is a thin,
Speaker 1: clean edge to the air. It is in peace, but
Speaker 1: it is absence, glaring, final and true. After I take
Speaker 1: a shower, change into borrow pajamas, and click off the
Speaker 1: guest room light, I stand by the window for a
Speaker 1: long time, holding myself steady. The city fire below is indifferent,
Speaker 1: bright and wide, as if beckoning me toward freedom. I'm
Speaker 1: not quite ready to touch. For a while, I stand there,
Speaker 1: barely moving, my forehead pressed to the cool glass, as
Speaker 1: I watched the city flicker on in earness. The yellow
Speaker 1: squares of windows blink open and shut, aunt, trails of headlight,
Speaker 1: crawl past of river, laughter carries from the bar at
Speaker 1: the corner. I count the seconds in pairs in hail, exhil,
Speaker 1: trying to even out my heart beat, to push thekneedlings
Speaker 1: sent to panic into some smaller, more manageable shape. Inside
Speaker 1: my sister's apartment, the world feels paswer and strangely quiet.
Speaker 1: Claire hands me a mug of Camwell tea, her face open,
Speaker 1: but she doesn't press. She just sits there with me
Speaker 1: on the couch for a while. T V's scrolling through
Speaker 1: me to travel Viloc's feet tucked up under her now
Speaker 1: and then she squeezes my shoulder, her touch steady, not demanding.
Speaker 1: I answer her basic questions in monosyllables. Yes, I'll eat something, No,
Speaker 1: I didn't sleep. I am aware distantly that she is
Speaker 1: worried I will crack. But all I feel is numbus,
Speaker 1: the after shock of a dam finally broken. Even here,
Speaker 1: away from Mark, away from the accusations and the patents,
Speaker 1: the air feels thick. I keep expecting a call or
Speaker 1: knock on the door, some demand that I return. Tie
Speaker 1: the bow makes sense of the end. I check my
Speaker 1: phone every half hour. Each time the notifications stuck higher.
Speaker 1: A message from Mark, please just talk to me, let
Speaker 1: me explain. Another I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry. More
Speaker 1: messages trail in, several from Simon everything okay, havin't heard
Speaker 1: from Mark. He's MEA one from aner, uncertain but warm.
Speaker 1: If you need to talk, call me any times. I
Speaker 1: don't respond. I can't. That night, called up in the
Speaker 1: narrow to embed under a pal of miss Match's blankets.
Speaker 1: I try to sleep, but my mind picks a tiny details,
Speaker 1: trembling shock of Mark's voice as I said I knew
Speaker 1: the way his hand shook Whennie finally admitted it. The
Speaker 1: kitchen counter stained with muddled wine, ready to bear witness
Speaker 1: to both so much laughter and so many secrets. I
Speaker 1: wonder whether any of this will seem less catastrophic in
Speaker 1: the morning, but just more final by mid morning. The
Speaker 1: next day, reality sharpens around the cracks. I realize how
Speaker 1: much practical shrapnels split leaves behind the apartment builds, the
Speaker 1: lease only in one of our names. I remember emails
Speaker 1: to return projects in various states of disarray, The brutal
Speaker 1: shock of knowing I'll have to put words to this.
Speaker 1: When our friends inevitably circle with concern, Mark calls twise,
Speaker 1: lets it ring all the way through. I listened to
Speaker 1: near the voicemail. Instead, I wipe my eyes and email
Speaker 1: our landlord asking about early termination of the lease. I
Speaker 1: don't cry when I write. The business like lang Whige
Speaker 1: seals up the damages for now. From the corner of
Speaker 1: the so for Cleare offers to help search short term sublets,
Speaker 1: but I wave her off. I sense that I need
Speaker 1: the action, the doing, just to keep the pain organized.
Speaker 1: Around noon, I get a series of buzzing texts, one
Speaker 1: after another, like a warning, Mark again, can we meet please?
Speaker 1: I just want to talk. I can't do this for
Speaker 1: a screen. No. I need to see you if if
Speaker 1: you want, I'll give you space. I swear, just tell
Speaker 1: me that's what you want. Part of me is tempted
Speaker 1: to answer, if only to end the panic, to control
Speaker 1: the terms of whatever public story will soon take shape.
Speaker 1: But I do nothing. Instead. I call Nina. I invent
Speaker 1: a reason at first to ask about a venda we
Speaker 1: chatted about for work, but she sees straight through and
Speaker 1: just sits with me on the call. We don't discuss
Speaker 1: the details. She makes a joke about her disastrous love life,
Speaker 1: so as if I ever catch her dating a runner,
Speaker 1: I am empowered to stage a public intervention. It breaks
Speaker 1: a little of the tension. I laugh weakly, and she says,
Speaker 1: you are allowed to lose it. You know, you're allowed
Speaker 1: to hate him, to miss him, to want to not
Speaker 1: look at him again, and also want him to show
Speaker 1: up at your door tonight. I thank her, close to
Speaker 1: tears again and hanging up. Is the reality that nothing
Speaker 1: about this is going to get easy. A sets in.
Speaker 1: There is no shortcut through the fallout. By evening, another
Speaker 1: message arrives Mark again, this one longer sprawling across half
Speaker 1: the screen. He tells me he's MP doubt the bottom
Speaker 1: drawer of address. I may drawer pats us spare chargers,
Speaker 1: favorite mug, running shoes I never really used, into a
Speaker 1: canvas tote in case I want to come by and
Speaker 1: get them. He sounds desperate, defeated. The story is the
Speaker 1: same as before. Apologies, explanations, promises that he'll talk to anyone,
Speaker 1: do anything whatever I want. A surge of fresh anger
Speaker 1: rises in me at the idea that he still doesn't
Speaker 1: quite understand that there is no fix, no clever apology.
Speaker 1: There's only what's done and what must come next. Later,
Speaker 1: after I've finally eat in half a sandwich and managed
Speaker 1: to take a real shower, my phone chimes with a
Speaker 1: message from Becca herself. I hesitate, then open it. She writes,
Speaker 1: I'm sorry again. I know I should be the last
Speaker 1: person to bother you, but I wanted to say I
Speaker 1: ended it with Mark. This wasn't fair to anyone. Please
Speaker 1: let me know if you need anything, or if there's
Speaker 1: anything I should tell your friends. This is awful. I'm
Speaker 1: so sorry. She doesn't ask for forgiveness. I don't answer
Speaker 1: her either. I want to to say something shop or final,
Speaker 1: but all my words have run dry. By the following afternoon,
Speaker 1: I've papped the rest of my things into paper bags
Speaker 1: and boxes borrowed from Claire's closet, and and of bed storage.
Speaker 1: The simple act of folding my favorites wayhret if oends
Speaker 1: a tiny ceramic face about they present from Mark two
Speaker 1: years ago, feels like slicing true tissue. At some point,
Speaker 1: I pick up our wedding photo, the only one I
Speaker 1: thought might comfort me, instead sends a bolt of humiliation.
Speaker 1: Up must bine so I show it faced Anne into back.
Speaker 1: I write out the simple message for our while a
Speaker 1: friend group copet and pasted in a group chat, my
Speaker 1: hand shaking, Mark and I have separated. It sudden, please
Speaker 1: respect my space. I'm safe with Claire for now that
Speaker 1: only she's a mine of floods. Some friends upraged on
Speaker 1: my behalf without asking questions, others offering a couch, most
Speaker 1: simply sending me heart and folded hands. Mark naturally starts
Speaker 1: deeming people explanations, which creates more confusion. An a text
Speaker 1: ask whether she should immediately I ignore her, unable to
Speaker 1: read even well meaning efforts as anything but intrusion. Right now,
Speaker 1: in small ways, the shared life begins to fray. Friends
Speaker 1: start choosing sides, or at least hesitating before responding to
Speaker 1: either of us. In group chats, Simon sends individual texts, worried,
Speaker 1: baffled what happened? Though you are right, Mark's not making sense.
Speaker 1: I don't correct the record. I let other people piece
Speaker 1: to get to their own stories. I look around Claire's
Speaker 1: guest room realize I can't spend more than another few
Speaker 1: days here. The apartment with Mark still feels like an
Speaker 1: open wound, but at least it's half mine and the
Speaker 1: plants his mine. Sure twill die without water. I email
Speaker 1: the landlord again ask about move out time lines. I
Speaker 1: saw a browsing frenish short term listing's online, letting the
Speaker 1: logistics crowd out the ache. Three days into this limbo,
Speaker 1: I decide to return to the apartment during the day
Speaker 1: while Mark is at work. Clarence is some coming with me,
Speaker 1: but I tell her to let me manage his part alone.
Speaker 1: Entering our home is a physical blow. The air is
Speaker 1: coll scented faintly with Marx cologne, and the debris of
Speaker 1: a now defunct union sits everywhere, share of photos, a
Speaker 1: left of a stuffed fridge, his battered headphones on the
Speaker 1: coffee table. I allow myself ten minutes to gather my things,
Speaker 1: moving quickly, half blinded by tears. Midly through collecting a
Speaker 1: stack of my design books, Mark's key rattles in the loch.
Speaker 1: I freeze, sudden heat radiating up the back of my neck.
Speaker 1: I half heartedly hope he'll just leave a package and go,
Speaker 1: But of course he' thus, and he steps into view,
Speaker 1: takes one startled, frightened look at me, and stops dead.
Speaker 1: There's a stretch of silence, where neither of us moves.
Speaker 1: Mark looks hollow, gone to then he did even a
Speaker 1: week ago. Hans shoved deep into the pockets of his grayoty.
Speaker 1: His voice, when it comes is gentle. I thought you'd
Speaker 1: be here later. I was just dropping off the rent check.
Speaker 1: I look down at my hands, clutching spines of two books,
Speaker 1: gripping tight enough to dentd covers. When I finally meet
Speaker 1: his eyes, I see nothing but desperation and a battered
Speaker 1: kind of hope. I'm not here to fight, he says,
Speaker 1: voice barely a whisper. I just wanted to see if
Speaker 1: he needed anything, or wanted to talk against my better judgment.
Speaker 1: I nod toward a half cleared dining table. I'll only
Speaker 1: be a minute. We stand ten feet apart, the ghost
Speaker 1: of our old comfort replaced by something brittle and tender.
Speaker 1: For a while, neither of us speaks. Mark breaks first.
Speaker 1: I know you probably hate me. I can't, He falters,
Speaker 1: rubs his face, then finds the words again. I can't
Speaker 1: offend anything. I just want to make things less awful
Speaker 1: for you. However you want, sell the place, stay whatever,
Speaker 1: as you call. The generosity almost undos me, not because
Speaker 1: it fixes anything, but because it's a glimpse of the
Speaker 1: man who wants would have moved mountains to keep me
Speaker 1: from sadness. Now it's a forfeit of failing apology. I'll
Speaker 1: be out in a week, I say, voice graping low.
Speaker 1: I'll send you back details for the utilities. He nods,
Speaker 1: tell me if you need help moving, or if you
Speaker 1: want to keep the record or anything. The silence is brutal.
Speaker 1: Tears threaten, but I forced them back. Please don't text
Speaker 1: me for a while. I just can't keep hearing from you,
Speaker 1: not until I can breathe again. His voice, when it returns,
Speaker 1: is strangled boghere. I shoulder my back, gather up two
Speaker 1: more boxes and move to the door. Mark sands as out,
Speaker 1: then stops me with a hand on the frame. For
Speaker 1: a moment, I think he might beg again, or reach
Speaker 1: for some piece of narrative that would stitch this all
Speaker 1: back together. Instead, he only says, voice thick. I hope
Speaker 1: you'll find someone who loves you how you deserve fans. Sorry,
Speaker 1: I wasn't that person. At the end. For the first time,
Speaker 1: I don't answer. I step around him, past the threshold,
Speaker 1: into the echoing stairwell. The docklt's close behind me, quiet
Speaker 1: final downstairs. I pause at the lobby window boxes, pressclose
Speaker 1: to my rib cage and let myself cry for a
Speaker 1: few minutes. The hot tear is surfacing at last, but
Speaker 1: I don't linger. I hail a rd chair, load my
Speaker 1: things silently, let the car carry me forward, city street
Speaker 1: light blurring into streaks against the glass. That night, back
Speaker 1: at Clay's, I unpacked, just the ess angels, a tooth brush,
Speaker 1: pajamas that don't belong to anyone but me. The mug
Speaker 1: mark bought me at the museum shop, which now feels
Speaker 1: like something from another epoch. I ignore clos gentle questions,
Speaker 1: answer a few ticks with a simple muchey, don't worry,
Speaker 1: and leave my phone charging on the desk, blank screen
Speaker 1: turned away, I brush my teeth, tying my hair back,
Speaker 1: and slide under the blanket. Rain comes down outside, hush
Speaker 1: in the city. The apartment is quiet except for the
Speaker 1: low hummel claes at dish of fridge and the whar
Speaker 1: of traffic far below. I'm neither angry nor heart broken,
Speaker 1: just spend temptied out in a new way. At last,
Speaker 1: sitting alone by the window. I look out at the
Speaker 1: mess of lights, my breath fogging the glass. I know
Speaker 1: there's no need ending, no sudden epiphany, no reverse under
Speaker 1: button for everything shattered here. But beneath the ache there
Speaker 1: is a strange, thin thread of relief. For the first
Speaker 1: time in months, I am not pretending. My loyalty is
Speaker 1: not in question. My instincts, though battered, are intact. I
Speaker 1: stray in, pressing my palm gently against the cold pane,
Speaker 1: and watch my own reflection received behind the deepening city dark,
Speaker 1: one breath at a time.