Speaker 1: I watched beads of rain gather and slide down the
Speaker 1: bouldering gym's tall glass wall, streaking the world in watery
Speaker 1: greens and grays. The fluorescent lights inside hummed above the
Speaker 1: worn crash bads. The place was half empty, ghostly and
Speaker 1: echoing with the clatter of chalk bags and the muffled
Speaker 1: thump of someone dropping off a V four. Sam should
Speaker 1: have been here already. He almost always beat me, claiming
Speaker 1: he liked to stretch in the quiet before the post
Speaker 1: work crowd surged in. It was our thing Thursday evenings
Speaker 1: at vine, sneakers squeaking against resin fake boulders standing in
Speaker 1: for the real crags we'd climb on weekends. I kept
Speaker 1: checking the door. Thirty minutes passed, then forty five. My
Speaker 1: phone rested on the mat near by, glowing more often
Speaker 1: with restock available notifications from the grocery app than anything
Speaker 1: from Sam. At fifty six mens, my phone buzzed. Sam
Speaker 1: got swamped by last minute changes. Can't make it. Sorry,
Speaker 1: we'll explain later. No follow up emoji, no trailing, but
Speaker 1: you'll crush to night or a call back to our
Speaker 1: running joke about that time I'd sprained my ankle and
Speaker 1: finished a root one legged, earning Jim applause and Sam's
Speaker 1: endless teasing. Just that stiff removed, like an email to
Speaker 1: a distant acquaintance. I stared at the screen longer than
Speaker 1: I should have, enough that the pattern of his words
Speaker 1: began to itch. One of the staff, a guy I'd
Speaker 1: taught to tape his fingers, nodded in my direction. As
Speaker 1: I slipped my phone into my bag. Out of habit,
Speaker 1: I scanned for familiar faces. Sometimes our crew would drop in,
Speaker 1: even if Sam bylaid that's how it worked. Half our
Speaker 1: circle lived within a couple of blocks. At the far wall,
Speaker 1: Jordan waved to me, brief and almost sheepish. I smiled,
Speaker 1: motioned a quick one more set, but he just shook
Speaker 1: his head shrugged. He looked, I don't know, awkward, like
Speaker 1: he'd seen me at a bad moment, or maybe just
Speaker 1: didn't want a chat. That wasn't normal. Usually we'd trash
Speaker 1: talk each other's lousy technique, swap horror stories about split
Speaker 1: calluses or Sam's weird chalk rituals. I tried not to
Speaker 1: read into it. Maybe Jordan was just tired, Maybe the
Speaker 1: rain had everyone in a funk. Maybe I was searching
Speaker 1: for something to explain the whole hollowing itself in my chest.
Speaker 1: I stretched, put my headphones in, ran a slow lap
Speaker 1: of easy climbs. Usually I'd text Sam a silly photo
Speaker 1: or a new Jim meme, get a string of gifts
Speaker 1: in return. Instead, I kept my phone zipped in the
Speaker 1: side pocket of my bag. I couldn't decide if I
Speaker 1: was angry or sad or both. It all churned together,
Speaker 1: this sense of being left waiting, the sense that to
Speaker 1: night wasn't actually the problem, just its shape. We'd both
Speaker 1: been at that wedding last weekend, dancing with every one
Speaker 1: but each other, crossing paths at the bar, and clinking
Speaker 1: glasses with friends. I remembered how Sam's laughter rang out
Speaker 1: in pockets of people, especially when he was talking to Amelia.
Speaker 1: They'd always gotten on, but that night it seemed like
Speaker 1: they were trading secrets, laughing at some punch line I
Speaker 1: didn't hear. The wedding seemed like a lifetime ago, even
Speaker 1: though my dress was still in the laundry basket at home.
Speaker 1: After another hour, the rain had let up. I left
Speaker 1: the gym, dragging my still damp shoes behind. Me. My
Speaker 1: phone pinged with another text from Sam, something about catching
Speaker 1: up to morrow, making it up to me, no details,
Speaker 1: no time. The city's air felt newly scrubbed and cold.
Speaker 1: Outside Vine, I paused under the awning wishing he'd just
Speaker 1: called me instead of all this polite distance. That's how
Speaker 1: we done things once, and now it felt like neither
Speaker 1: of us knew how to start a real conversation again.
Speaker 1: For some reason, that thought was the one that stuck
Speaker 1: with me all the way home. The loft was quiet,
Speaker 1: but somehow messy. Papers spilling from the desk, my sketch
Speaker 1: books stacked haphazardly with Sam's photography books, the small mountain
Speaker 1: of climbing gear tangled beneath the kitchen counter. Three years ago,
Speaker 1: moving in together had been an adventure, a patchwork of
Speaker 1: creative chaos. Both of us freelancers, both convinced we could
Speaker 1: build a world out of grit and wildness. We'd chosen
Speaker 1: this place for its tall ceilings and endless light, the
Speaker 1: battered hardwood floor that Sam claimed sounded like an old friend.
Speaker 1: Limping home, Every nook held evidence of us, half finished
Speaker 1: models and colour swatches, rows of succulents that survived mostly
Speaker 1: by accident. Our mornings had a choreography, Sam up first,
Speaker 1: padding barefoot to grind beans, and an experiment with brewing methods
Speaker 1: that left me both caffeinated and slightly alarmed. He worked
Speaker 1: at the kitchen island, laptop and tablet spread in a
Speaker 1: hurricane of unfinished projects and empty espresso cups. I'd roll
Speaker 1: out ten minutes after him, hair wild, taking my tea
Speaker 1: back to bed as he called out things like vote
Speaker 1: lemon yellow or neon orange for this poster. Half the time,
Speaker 1: deadlines would pass as we debated hypothetical album covers or
Speaker 1: weekend hikes to plan. Sometimes he'd look at me across
Speaker 1: the sunlight, his eyes still soft from sleep, and I'd
Speaker 1: feel it to the core, not just luck, but the
Speaker 1: rightness of our life, assembled together, two relentless makers orbiting
Speaker 1: in the same offbeat solar system. It wasn't Adylick. Sam
Speaker 1: drove hard, sometimes harder than anyone else could keep up with.
Speaker 1: He'd vanish into work for days, juggling three side gigs because,
Speaker 1: in his words, still chasing that creative pinnacle. Sometimes I
Speaker 1: felt less like a partner and more like his anchor,
Speaker 1: the one who clipped his bills to the fridge who
Speaker 1: called him back from his storms. I rescented that role
Speaker 1: just enough to notice when it crept back in. But
Speaker 1: outside stress, we were a unit. The Sam and Leela Show.
Speaker 1: Jordan used to call it falling into new hobbies and
Speaker 1: trips at the drop of a hat. It was Sam
Speaker 1: who convinced me to quit my agency job, promising we'd
Speaker 1: land on our feet because we make our own luck. Babe.
Speaker 1: He was always restless, impatient, brilliant too, a dozen wild
Speaker 1: ideas for every practical one, the type to text me
Speaker 1: at two a m. About a documentary idea or a
Speaker 1: root up some forgotten canyon. Our circle overlapped, a messy
Speaker 1: ven diagram of old art school friends, creative rivals, ex's
Speaker 1: turn confidantes. We made it all work. Nina, who Sam
Speaker 1: shot videos with, who never showed up without a story,
Speaker 1: who'd end up sleeping on our pull out couch after
Speaker 1: too many whisky sours. Jordan, irrepressible and loyal, Amelia who
Speaker 1: started as my work mate and ended up well essential.
Speaker 1: We d built a tiny village, one that felt deliberate
Speaker 1: and chosen, even when it was chaotic, even last weekend,
Speaker 1: when we both stood in sequined outfits, promising each other,
Speaker 1: more ALP's trips, less client email. It seemed obvious we
Speaker 1: keep building something special. I joked about the wild dogs
Speaker 1: in Croatia, our disaster camping trip, about how we needed
Speaker 1: another travel fiasco story for our circle. Sam had grinned,
Speaker 1: talked vaguely about big things soon. I'd pressed, but he'd
Speaker 1: side stepped, just said, you'll see that. Distance felt bigger now,
Speaker 1: the sort you can't patch with a joke. The next night,
Speaker 1: Sam stayed late again. He facetimed as I was making pasta,
Speaker 1: holding the phone up near his ear so only the
Speaker 1: far wall of a studio showed behind him. Messy, sure,
Speaker 1: but suspiciously tidy where he sat. Sorry, babe, Nina brought
Speaker 1: in this last minute brief and everything went nuclear. Don't
Speaker 1: wait up. I'd waved off my disappointment, mumbling something about
Speaker 1: an early bedtime and poked at my bowl, watching the
Speaker 1: pasta cur earl and stick for a while. I tried
Speaker 1: to comfort myself. It's always like this during client crunch.
Speaker 1: He'll be back soon and it'll be us against the
Speaker 1: chaos again. But a pattern surfaced. Three nights in a row.
Speaker 1: He was late. Once he apologized, once he just texted,
Speaker 1: and once he didn't check in at all. The running thread,
Speaker 1: I realized was a lack of specifics, no detail about
Speaker 1: where exactly, who was around, or when he'd be done. Friday,
Speaker 1: I ordered tie and ate alone, scrolling through reels and
Speaker 1: half watching the living room door. It was after nine
Speaker 1: p m. When I messaged, are you coming home? Or
Speaker 1: should I brush my teeth now? Sam replied five minutes later.
Speaker 1: At the studio, Nina and the crew workshopping. The pitch
Speaker 1: might run late, love you, love you, sure, But when
Speaker 1: it was unusual enough for him to be so vague
Speaker 1: that I well, I decided to risk looking a little crazy.
Speaker 1: There's a bar two blocks from Nina's studio, a place
Speaker 1: where creative types and freelancers gathered after these late night marathons,
Speaker 1: swapping gossip and decompressing. I told myself I'd just swing by,
Speaker 1: maybe surprise him, grab a drink, say hi to Nina
Speaker 1: and their team. The bar was just busy enough to
Speaker 1: feel like a neutral ground. I slid past wet umbrellas,
Speaker 1: ordered a whisky soda, spotted Nina instantly, vivid red lipstick,
Speaker 1: arms thrown wide in animated story telling at a corner table.
Speaker 1: I waited for a lull, then drifted over. Hey, Nina,
Speaker 1: is this the all night production meeting? I tried to
Speaker 1: sound casual, uncertain if my own nerves made me louder.
Speaker 1: She startled a little, never Nina's style, before switching gears smoothly.
Speaker 1: Oh leela yea, just winding down. Every One else peeled
Speaker 1: off already. No Sam, I asked, aiming for breezy but missing.
Speaker 1: She blinked, genuinely confused or good at faking it. He's
Speaker 1: not here. Figured he went home after you too, finished up.
Speaker 1: The question mark at the end was unspoken but heavy.
Speaker 1: I fumbled something about probably just missed him, and retreated quickly.
Speaker 1: Half Way home, I texted Sam Bar's dead swing by
Speaker 1: for leftovers if you want. My phone stayed silent for
Speaker 1: almost forty minutes. When Sam arrived, he barely met my eyes,
Speaker 1: dropping his bag without his usual dramatic groan. We finished early.
Speaker 1: I needed a walk, so I just headed home after.
Speaker 1: Sorry for not texting sooner. Didn't see you at the bar.
Speaker 1: Nina's there now. He hesitated just briefly enough for me
Speaker 1: to register, then shrugged. Guess. I went the long way
Speaker 1: loop by the lab to drop a card off. Been
Speaker 1: a weird night. He headed to the shower, brushing past me.
Speaker 1: I stood in the kitchen, finger on my phone, pulse
Speaker 1: humming between wanting to call him out and wanting to
Speaker 1: believe the world was still as simple as Sam just
Speaker 1: getting lost in another odd errand. The next morning, bleary
Speaker 1: eyed over oatmeal, I noticed his phone on the kitchen table,
Speaker 1: screen up, notifications flashing. I scrolled past a parade of
Speaker 1: Slack messages, then froze at a miss call notification Amelia
Speaker 1: time stamp eleven thirty seven p m. Last night. It
Speaker 1: wouldn't be strange if it weren't for the hour and
Speaker 1: the fact that I'd spoken to Amelia two days ago
Speaker 1: and she hadn't mentioned calling any one that late. I
Speaker 1: touched the phone, then withdrew. This was the point where
Speaker 1: certainty started to feel traitorous, a kind of self betrayal.
Speaker 1: Was I really circling my own doubts, feeding them just
Speaker 1: because I was alone? Too often? Lately? Who cared if
Speaker 1: friends called each other late? By noon? My resolve had
Speaker 1: flipped twice between somethinges off and don't manufacture drama? I texted,
Speaker 1: did Amelia a lazy mem waited for her usual instant reaction.
Speaker 1: It took four hours for her to reply, dry and flat,
Speaker 1: lull mondays, Am I right, Maybe we were all just
Speaker 1: stretched thin still. By late afternoon, I was examining everything.
Speaker 1: Sam's laundry pockets not emptied like usual, notes to self,
Speaker 1: unread messages. I tried to cut myself off. I hated
Speaker 1: how easily suspicion bled into everything, making me window shop
Speaker 1: our life for cracks. That weekend, Sam turned down two
Speaker 1: different invitations, a gallery opening with our mixed crew, a
Speaker 1: brunch at EM's, someone from my old office. I should focus,
Speaker 1: he said, I can't keep up with everything. He d
Speaker 1: started using that phrase a lot. Instead, I went alone
Speaker 1: Saturday morning to the gallery. My corner of the group
Speaker 1: was smaller that day. No Sam, no Jordan, only Amelia,
Speaker 1: who glided in with a too bright wave. We drifted
Speaker 1: from painting to painting, but it was impossible not to
Speaker 1: notice how she perched on the edge of conversation, avoiding
Speaker 1: my gaze at key moments, shifting focus to other friends
Speaker 1: when Sam surfaced as a topic. We got coffee after.
Speaker 1: Amelia was unfailingly polite, but distracted, twitchy every time her
Speaker 1: phone buzzed. So any new projects with Sam? I asked,
Speaker 1: hoping to sound genuinely curious. She blinked, fiddling with the
Speaker 1: cardboard sleeve of her cup. Sam. Oh, only some EMIL feedback,
Speaker 1: he slammed, anyway, how's your mural going? Before I could
Speaker 1: ask more, she started recounting a networking fail at a
Speaker 1: start up lunch, forcing the mood back to safe ground.
Speaker 1: When we parted, her hug was quick and distracted. Her
Speaker 1: phone never left her right hand. Maybe this was what
Speaker 1: burnout looked like. Maybe it wasn't about me at all.
Speaker 1: Sunday evening, I I hadn't been home that much, but
Speaker 1: the place looked like it had hosted a small tornado.
Speaker 1: As I sorted Sam's work jacket, a charcoal corderer he
Speaker 1: wore almost everywhere, I found a receipt folded into the pocket.
Speaker 1: Not unusual, except it was for dinner for two at
Speaker 1: a tiny restaurant in Midtown I had never been to
Speaker 1: on a night we were supposedly both crashing on take
Speaker 1: out in front of Netflix. Curiosity or maybe self defense,
Speaker 1: drove me to google the name up scale low lighting
Speaker 1: not cheap, no way. It was a quick bite with
Speaker 1: a client type joint. I waited until Sam tossed his
Speaker 1: keys on the counter and slumped into a bar stool
Speaker 1: after his errand run. Did you have dinner at Ricardo
Speaker 1: Es on Thursday? I asked, pretending to read a message
Speaker 1: on my laptop. He didn't miss a beat. No, why
Speaker 1: I held up the receipt. Oh that Nina and I
Speaker 1: swung by there. She want to try it and she paid,
Speaker 1: but I covered dessert. Sorry, Kinder forgot. I considered how
Speaker 1: to counter, then remembered seeing Nina's tagged Instagram story that night.
Speaker 1: She was at a poetry reading across town by seven.
Speaker 1: This time I said nothing. I nodded, made a note
Speaker 1: on my mental cork board, added it to my collection
Speaker 1: of oddities. Sam was coming home later and later, more
Speaker 1: and more often. His gear usually dumped midway across the
Speaker 1: apartment was always prepacked, now lined up by the door.
Speaker 1: When I suggested hitting the gym together, he always had
Speaker 1: a reason why he couldn't. I just need space, Leela,
Speaker 1: to really focus. You should do the same. Go out
Speaker 1: with your friends more. We've been going full throttle for months.
Speaker 1: It strung more than I showed. Our world had always
Speaker 1: been about togetherness. The desk arguments and muscle aches. The
Speaker 1: way our friend groups orbited and overlapped, it felt like
Speaker 1: some one had thrown a rock through the glass of
Speaker 1: what we'd built, and either of us wanted to clean
Speaker 1: up the shards. The next Saturday, I'd plan to join
Speaker 1: a group for one of Nina's collaborator brunches. Sam had
Speaker 1: told me it'll be my whole crew, come meet us,
Speaker 1: but when I texted Nina to confirm the address, she responded,
Speaker 1: actually brunch is canceled, client bylaid and I'm out of
Speaker 1: town anyway. Spur of the moment, Sorry next time. Later,
Speaker 1: scrolling mindlessly, I saw her posted Instagram story an unmistakable
Speaker 1: view from an Upstate lake, posted at nine a m.
Speaker 1: At this point, I wasn't sure what to say or do.
Speaker 1: It felt as if reality and narrative were peeling away
Speaker 1: from each other. Was Sam lying or was I putting
Speaker 1: together pieces of different puzzles. The next blow landed on
Speaker 1: my phone's home screen. Our joint ride share account, something
Speaker 1: Sam just didn't bother to open since I handled expenses,
Speaker 1: posted an auto notification for a late night ride. It
Speaker 1: was billed at two twelve aim from a residential street
Speaker 1: clear across the city. When I brought it up, Sam shrugged,
Speaker 1: I must have left my card saved thereby accident, or
Speaker 1: it was Jordan, Remember when he set up the split
Speaker 1: last month. Jordan always used his own account. Still, the
Speaker 1: lie was small enough to slip by if I let it.
Speaker 1: I realized then how much will power it takes to
Speaker 1: accept what you want to be true rather than what
Speaker 1: actually fits the evidence. I stopped discussing most of this
Speaker 1: with Amelia. She drifted anyway. Conversations, clipped short excuses about
Speaker 1: emergencies at work, an energy around her like she was
Speaker 1: afraid I'd ask one question too many. I grabbed drinks
Speaker 1: with Jordan, desperate for something that made sense. I asked,
Speaker 1: as gently as I could, how s Sam? I barely
Speaker 1: see him outside of meetings anymore? Has he been out
Speaker 1: with you guys? Jordan fidgeted with his glass eyes, darting,
Speaker 1: I don't know. Maybe you two just need a breather.
Speaker 1: You know, he stressed, You're stressed. Nothing's up as far
Speaker 1: as I know. He knocked back his gin. Then, as
Speaker 1: if to seal the subject, steered the talk to sports.
Speaker 1: When I pressed the tiniest bit about recent weekends When
Speaker 1: Sam claimed late nights with Jordan, he hesitated, then forced
Speaker 1: a laugh. We should all crash a movie or something
Speaker 1: like Old Times. It was disorienting. I couldn't tell if
Speaker 1: everyone had agreed not to talk, or if the world
Speaker 1: had truly tilted around me self. Doubts set in. What
Speaker 1: if I was just paranoid, letting anxiety rewire My memory
Speaker 1: was either one creating drama for no reason, piecing together
Speaker 1: ordinary slips into a code they didn't actually conceal. Still,
Speaker 1: the tension at home kept twisting tighter. I tried to
Speaker 1: regain my footing. I cooked more elaborate dinners, left sticky
Speaker 1: notes inside jokes, reminders to take his vitamins, memes that
Speaker 1: made Sam crack up six months ago but now just
Speaker 1: got tossed in the recycling. We passed each other like
Speaker 1: coworkers on staggered shifts, polite. One night, I caught him
Speaker 1: standing on the fire escape, phone pressed close to his mouth,
Speaker 1: voice soft and tense as he murmured, no, it's not
Speaker 1: it just can't be right now. When he came in,
Speaker 1: he claimed he was calling to dispute a delivery charge.
Speaker 1: I pretended not to notice. I cataloged the tightness in
Speaker 1: his smile, and the way his fingers drummed on the
Speaker 1: window sill as he watched for the next rain storm.
Speaker 1: I stopped confiding in Amelia, too tired to keep prying
Speaker 1: at her silences. I stopped volunteering plans with Nina or Jordan,
Speaker 1: afraid my queries had become obvious. Even on group chats,
Speaker 1: replies dwindled. No one would say the word, but everyone
Speaker 1: seemed to know. There was a fracture running beneath our feet.
Speaker 1: In the thick of all this, Sam proposed a date night.
Speaker 1: It was a Tuesday, just before the summer heat broke
Speaker 1: in Earnest. He texted, did no clients, no calls, just us.
Speaker 1: I'll handle dinner. When I got home, the loft was
Speaker 1: strung with fairy lights, soft music, looping quietly. Sam wore
Speaker 1: the linen shirt I loved, the one from our stupid
Speaker 1: road trip to Joshua Tree. On the kitchen counter, he'd
Speaker 1: laid out home made Yoki wine, a plate of tempura vegetables,
Speaker 1: messy but beautifully arranged. He'd left a tiny toy hedgehog
Speaker 1: next to my water glass, a call back to a
Speaker 1: joke from our second date when he'd ordered tea with
Speaker 1: the personality of a startled hedgehog. For a while, it
Speaker 1: felt familiar. He was different, effusive, a little performative, but
Speaker 1: also open in a way i'd missed. As we ate,
Speaker 1: he set his fork down, thumb running over the scar
Speaker 1: on the back of his hand. I'm sorry, I've been elsewhere.
Speaker 1: It's not fair to you, he hesitated, then forged ahead.
Speaker 1: Works felt like a treadmill. I can't get off, and
Speaker 1: I guess I got a little envious. Actually, you've been
Speaker 1: killing it lately, landing all the those big contracts, and
Speaker 1: it feels like I'm stuck. That's not an excuse. I'm
Speaker 1: proud of you, truly, but it's humbling and it made
Speaker 1: me retreat a bit. I should have said something. The
Speaker 1: words were halting but real, not quite the full answer
Speaker 1: for the last month, but it held enough truth to
Speaker 1: serve as a life line. I laid my hand over his.
Speaker 1: We're allowed to crash. I just miss you. I don't
Speaker 1: need you to be perfect or always hustling. I just
Speaker 1: want you here with me, not in your head. He
Speaker 1: squeezed back, blinking hard. For a second, it seemed just
Speaker 1: seemed like our lines were rejoining. We stayed up late,
Speaker 1: wandering back through old stories and dreams, laughing at the
Speaker 1: night we'd almost been arrested in Dijon for climbing locked gates.
Speaker 1: Hope snuck in. Maybe this had just been one drawn
Speaker 1: out sink mistake. Maybe we could reboot after all. Later,
Speaker 1: cleaning up after Sam ducked into the shower, I sought
Speaker 1: it laundry and found myself absently rifleling his jacket pockets,
Speaker 1: just mindless checking for receipts, headphones, the gas bill he
Speaker 1: often forgot. My fingers caught on a piece of folded stationery,
Speaker 1: faint perfume, clinging to the edges. Curiosity propelled me. I
Speaker 1: wasn't snooping, or at least that's what I told myself
Speaker 1: as I carefully opened it up. The note inside was short,
Speaker 1: written in familiar looping script. Last Friday was different. I
Speaker 1: keep replaying it in my head, hoping we'll find more
Speaker 1: moments like that. It's killing me to keep its secret,
Speaker 1: but I know we have to for now. Let me
Speaker 1: know when you can talk. I need to know I'm
Speaker 1: not alone in this. No name, no signature, but I'd
Speaker 1: seen handwriting like that in a hundred variations, birthdays, post
Speaker 1: its cards slipped under my office mug Amelia. Pressure built
Speaker 1: behind my eyes, the sound of water running in the
Speaker 1: bathroom felt distant, my hands tingled with adrenaline, and beneath
Speaker 1: it something colder, the sense that I'd been living blind
Speaker 1: inside my own life. I pressed the note between two cookbooks, foolishly,
Speaker 1: as if Sam might see it somewhere else, and sat
Speaker 1: on the kitchen floor until my pulse settled. In the
Speaker 1: week that followed, I tried to keep functioning. I found
Speaker 1: old birthday cards compared loops and ms, and the way
Speaker 1: she dotted her is the match was undeniable. I drafted
Speaker 1: a message to Amelia, then deleted it three times. Instead,
Speaker 1: I sent her a photo from our last positive ViBe's
Speaker 1: only hiking trip, just some mountain wild flowers. She responded late,
Speaker 1: a clipped missed this hope work es not crushing you.
Speaker 1: I replied, let's catch up properly. She hearted the message,
Speaker 1: then went silent. Nothing, no counter offer, no attempt to
Speaker 1: bridge the gap. I started scouring. If I was in,
Speaker 1: I was all in. I messaged Nina, asking for a
Speaker 1: catch up. She responded, I'm out of the loop lately,
Speaker 1: but if something's gone sideways between you and Sam. You
Speaker 1: too should talk directly. I care about both of you,
Speaker 1: but I don't want to get it wrong. It was
Speaker 1: the gentlest way of saying, don't ask me to pick sides.
Speaker 1: Sam meanwhile slid further away, even when sitting next to me.
Speaker 1: He seemed lost in calculation or regret, flinching away from touch,
Speaker 1: offering tender words by habit, but starved of conviction. My
Speaker 1: mind returned constantly to the wedding. Sam and Amelia leaning close,
Speaker 1: trading sly jokes, disappearing together for an eber ride I
Speaker 1: dismissed as just sharing to save money. I've been so
Speaker 1: confident that nothing could blindside me in my own back yard.
Speaker 1: Now I was second guessing every detail, the glances, the laughter,
Speaker 1: the way Amelia had avoided dancing near us unless pulled
Speaker 1: in by some one else. I started to feel cornered
Speaker 1: by the very spaces we'd made together. The loft's walls
Speaker 1: seemed to hum with the pressure of secrets. I started
Speaker 1: sleeping with headphones, drowning out the creeks and buzzes that
Speaker 1: reminded me of the absence between us. I knew Sam's passwords, trust,
Speaker 1: or sloppiness. Who could say. One night, after a day
Speaker 1: of awkward near silences, I signed into his laptop. The
Speaker 1: air in the loft was sharp, everything outlined in midnight blue.
Speaker 1: I shouldn't have done it, but I did. Buried not
Speaker 1: deep enough. In an archived folder were a series of
Speaker 1: draft emails, Some were half written, a few started and deleted,
Speaker 1: all addressed to one person. I can't stop thinking about
Speaker 1: what we started that night. It's tearing me apart to
Speaker 1: act like everything's normal. I want to see you, but
Speaker 1: don't know how to make it right, not with her
Speaker 1: so close all the time. I wish I could just
Speaker 1: make one decision and be done another, if only we'd
Speaker 1: stopped at talking. But I don't regret what happened, just
Speaker 1: how messy everything got after. I need to know if
Speaker 1: you're OK. I can't keep splitting my life, but I'm
Speaker 1: not strong enough to let go. Some were angry, some pleading,
Speaker 1: some coldly rationalizing, all unfinished, never sent. Every atom in
Speaker 1: me screamed. What stabbed more than the betrayal itself was
Speaker 1: the meticulous proof. It wasn't some three drink lapse, but
Speaker 1: a living, breathing thing, something that had required collaboration, lies,
Speaker 1: and the co operation of my own friends to keep alive.
Speaker 1: My hands shook as I snapped photos of a few
Speaker 1: for myself. This discovery wasn't just about Sam's lies. It
Speaker 1: was a sign that every one around us had kept
Speaker 1: one eye closed, maybe hoping the mess would sort itself out.
Speaker 1: I needed a witness, or perhaps just some one to
Speaker 1: confirm the world was as upside down as it suddenly seemed.
Speaker 1: I texted Jordan, the only person who'd at least looked
Speaker 1: me in the eye last week. My gut is telling
Speaker 1: me things of bad and I need you to be honest.
Speaker 1: Please three dots, two minutes, then a reply, Leela. I
Speaker 1: wanted to stay out of it. I thought maybe maybe
Speaker 1: it had burn itself out. But yeah, after the wedding
Speaker 1: it crossed a line. I'm sorry. I didn't know how
Speaker 1: to tell you. No excuses, none needed. The story finally settled,
Speaker 1: the last clean air left the room. I scrolled back
Speaker 1: through dozens of memories, overlaying every smile with the knowledge
Speaker 1: of its expiration date. It was all retroactively dyed with doubt.
Speaker 1: The planning, the trips, the way Sam and Amelia had
Speaker 1: always claimed to be just friends with a shared playlist
Speaker 1: suddenly explanations for recent months, the distracted energy, the clipped conversations,
Speaker 1: group texts gone cold, excuses about work trips became a
Speaker 1: dark lattice. Each piece of evidence didn't just fit, it
Speaker 1: locked in place. I slept badly that night, turned over
Speaker 1: every detail, as if the right sequence might restitch my life,
Speaker 1: or at least dent the raw edge of betrayal. All
Speaker 1: around me was the hum of the city and the
Speaker 1: sense of something fragile finally shattering, silent, inevitable, irreversible. The
Speaker 1: whole world shrank down to the soft blue tremor of
Speaker 1: my phone's glow, the scroll of Jordan's final text burning
Speaker 1: across my mind. I couldn't respond, not right away. What
Speaker 1: was there to say? I tried to remember what it
Speaker 1: felt like trusting people. It was so recent and so impossible.
Speaker 1: The echo of belonging, knowing my partner, knowing my friends
Speaker 1: felt manufactured now, a play I'd agreed to without reading
Speaker 1: the script's last act. I didn't sleep much, lying on
Speaker 1: my side of the bed while Sam lightly snored from
Speaker 1: across the wooden platform. Even in rest, a gulf stretched
Speaker 1: between us. I wondered if he could sense it if
Speaker 1: unconscious guilt could carry across five feet of tangled sheets.
Speaker 1: In the morning, I put on leggings in a thick
Speaker 1: sweatshet and slipped out early, grateful for the fog that
Speaker 1: pressed against the city streets. I wanted motion, something to
Speaker 1: remind me that my muscle still worked, that I still
Speaker 1: had choices. I walked the blocks around the river, breathing
Speaker 1: in cold air, cycling through every possible future. Should I
Speaker 1: wait for more proof? Should I confront him? Was there
Speaker 1: even a confrontation to have? Or was I just confirming
Speaker 1: what every one else already knew. By the time I
Speaker 1: got back, the loft was empty. Sam's coffee mug stood
Speaker 1: half full by the sink, a trail of grounds leading
Speaker 1: to the recycling bin. A quick check of his calendar
Speaker 1: showed the usual client call studio, a session blocked out
Speaker 1: for collab, but no details, no names. I texted Amelia again,
Speaker 1: not about the note, not about anything direct, just thinking
Speaker 1: of hiking Breakneck on Saturday. Could you some fresh air
Speaker 1: and a good climb you in twenty minutes no response. Instead,
Speaker 1: I scroll old social and found her stories from the
Speaker 1: night before, A stack of cocktail glasses tagged friend's hands
Speaker 1: raising toasts. No Sam in the photos, but I couldn't
Speaker 1: trust what wasn't posted. I tried to remember if she'd
Speaker 1: invited me, or if those nights always happened when I
Speaker 1: was conveniently not around. Trying to regain some normalcy, I
Speaker 1: messaged Nina coffee catch up this week. My treat needs
Speaker 1: studio horror stories. She was more responsive a text me
Speaker 1: your schedule, I'm all over the place, but would love
Speaker 1: to recharge. It felt more genuine the way she used
Speaker 1: to talk to me before everything got divided and tense.
Speaker 1: At work, I cycled through routine sketch, revise, answer, uninspired
Speaker 1: e mails, repeat, but every highlight of my conversation with
Speaker 1: Amelia from the week before played back on a loop.
Speaker 1: Her deflections had been clear in retrospect, cut off, laughs,
Speaker 1: changed subjects, her eyes scanning everything, but my face overlooked
Speaker 1: it because I wanted to Sam checked in around two
Speaker 1: a text neutral enough to be from a colleague studio
Speaker 1: as chaos might grab take out late again, sorry L
Speaker 1: I stared at it, thumb hovering, typed no worries, and
Speaker 1: then deleted it. I considered sending nothing at all, but
Speaker 1: that felt like giving up ground. Finally, O k get
Speaker 1: some sleep. To night, I left work early, went to
Speaker 1: the gym alone, and watched as the routines went on,
Speaker 1: unaffected by my private storm. Every now and then I
Speaker 1: saw strangers greet each other warmly, couples stretching side by side,
Speaker 1: small clouds of trust, undisturbed. I stayed until my arms
Speaker 1: shook with exhaustion, wishing my body could pull the ache
Speaker 1: out of my head. That night, I rifled through Sam's
Speaker 1: stack of mail, pretending to search for a misplaced bill.
Speaker 1: I didn't find anything, but the very act of looking
Speaker 1: made me feel culpable. Was this how it happened? Did
Speaker 1: all betrayals twist the betrayed into secret keepers too? Sam
Speaker 1: came home after eleven, caught in the limp of defeat
Speaker 1: and barely glanced in my direction. I made tea, offered
Speaker 1: him a cup. Thanks, but I'm wired, need to decompress.
Speaker 1: He disappeared into the bedroom. I thought about following, almost did,
Speaker 1: then decided to let the space stretch unchallenged. The next morning,
Speaker 1: sunlight beam plastered the loft. I watched Sam getting dressed,
Speaker 1: his movements careful, almost methodical. You want breakfast? I asked,
Speaker 1: pitching my voice into the gentle territory of old routines.
Speaker 1: He hesitated, then shook his head early meeting with the team,
Speaker 1: should probably just grab a bagel on the way. The
Speaker 1: words were too clean, stripped of any warmth. I waited
Speaker 1: until he left, watched his reflection disappear in the elevator glass,
Speaker 1: and then did something I'd never done in our entire relationship.
Speaker 1: I looked for evidence. Not in his phone, too obvious,
Speaker 1: too gross. I checked the shared expense up again, meticulous.
Speaker 1: Now rolling back through charges, line by line, buried in
Speaker 1: a week old list, I found a late afternoon coffee
Speaker 1: shop charge from a street nowhere near any of Sam's
Speaker 1: supposed hangouts. I mapped it, then scrolled Amelia's Instagram. There
Speaker 1: a shot of the exact cafe, two drinks, two hands,
Speaker 1: not tagged, but the pale blue stripe on the left
Speaker 1: hand mug sleeve matched the linen shirt I'd seen on
Speaker 1: our bedroom floor the next day. Maybe it could have
Speaker 1: been anyone. Except no, that wasn't true, and I knew it.
Speaker 1: Desperate for something resembling reality, I messaged Nina. I keep
Speaker 1: worrying that I'm missing obvious things like maybe everyone else
Speaker 1: has already seen whatever's happening. A beat later, her reply, Hey,
Speaker 1: what's going on? Do you want to talk about it?
Speaker 1: Actually talk? Or distract yourself or both. I hesitated, thumb
Speaker 1: over the keyboard. I think I think Sam's lying to me,
Speaker 1: not just about work, about Amelia too. The typing bubbles appeared, paused, reappeared. Shit, Leela.
Speaker 1: I don't know specifics, and I don't want to make
Speaker 1: you spiral, but yeah, sometimes things have felt off. I've
Speaker 1: kept my distance. I thought it would sort out, or
Speaker 1: you'd talk to each other. Sorry if that makes me
Speaker 1: a shitty friend. It was the closest thing to a
Speaker 1: life line i'd been thrown in weeks. I wanted to
Speaker 1: ask her to choose sides, to dig into every detail,
Speaker 1: but I resisted. Instead, I thanked her, forced myself to
Speaker 1: drink half a mug of cold coffee, then put my
Speaker 1: phone face down. Afterwards, I went for a walk, drifting
Speaker 1: through pockets of the city unfamiliar even after seven years.
Speaker 1: I ended up near the old print shop where Sam
Speaker 1: had taken me on our first official date. A day
Speaker 1: of messy ink and uncontrolled laughter. I could almost smell
Speaker 1: the old wood glue the hint turpentine that clung to
Speaker 1: his jacket for weeks. I stood on the sidewalk, hands
Speaker 1: deep in my pockets, staring at sunlit dust swirling in
Speaker 1: the display window. I remembered us planning trips, the endless
Speaker 1: future of some days we drawn in neon on napkins
Speaker 1: and backs of receipts. It hurt because somewhere under the debris,
Speaker 1: I realized I still wanted those futures, even as the
Speaker 1: person I thought would be there with me receded further.
Speaker 1: Every day evening brought its own tension. Sam texted that
Speaker 1: he was at a group work session last push before
Speaker 1: the pitch. I debated showing up uninvited. Instead, I made
Speaker 1: dinner for myself and tried to paint, but every brush
Speaker 1: stroke became another shape of confusion. Hours later, a knock
Speaker 1: sounded at the door. For a wild moment, I thought
Speaker 1: it might be Amelia, come to confess everything and beg forgiveness.
Speaker 1: But it was Nina, hair in a messy knot, wearing
Speaker 1: paint splattered overalls. I owed you, you were dropping, she said,
Speaker 1: making herself at home on the old green couch. Consider
Speaker 1: me the distraction half of my earlier promise. There was
Speaker 1: a quiet solidarity in the way. She curled her feet
Speaker 1: under her, then produced a bottle of wine and breathlessly
Speaker 1: recounted a disastrous brand shoot from her day. I played
Speaker 1: along for a while, grateful for the levity and for
Speaker 1: Nina's refusal to interrogate the obvious. Eventually the conversation ebbed
Speaker 1: and she went still. It's not my story to tell Leela,
Speaker 1: but if I ever see you hurt like this again,
Speaker 1: I'll do whatever it takes to stop it. Just don't
Speaker 1: let their secrets become your burden, Promise me. I found
Speaker 1: tears sharpening behind my eyes, enough to sting, but not
Speaker 1: to fall, I promise. She hugged me, perfume and acrylic paint,
Speaker 1: lingering in her hoodie, and left quietly by the back stairs.
Speaker 1: The days began to slide into each other, a surreal
Speaker 1: montage of avoidance, half finished meals and read messages stacked
Speaker 1: in double digits. I found myself re examining fragments of
Speaker 1: the past few months. Overheard laughter in the other room,
Speaker 1: Amelia stopping mid sentence at a story. Sam's sudden reluctance
Speaker 1: to let me post group photos from the wedding it
Speaker 1: was the little things that started to feel radioactive. I
Speaker 1: picked up my own phone at odd hours, half way
Speaker 1: through messages to Amelia or Sam before deleting them, afraid
Speaker 1: of what I might actually say if I pressed send.
Speaker 1: Then came the night I couldn't escape confrontation, even by avoidance.
Speaker 1: I was in the kitchen, hands deep in dish soap
Speaker 1: when Sam walked in energy brittle. Are you Are you
Speaker 1: upset with me about something? He asked, his voice almost
Speaker 1: too casual, like someone rehearsing for sympathy. I set the
Speaker 1: mug down. I just feel like I don't know where
Speaker 1: you are half the time, or what's going on with
Speaker 1: you or with us. He looked nervous, tell the way
Speaker 1: he smoothed the hair on his left arm, something he
Speaker 1: did only when deeply uncomfortable. It's work stuff, a lot
Speaker 1: on my plate, plus things with Nina's project have been
Speaker 1: all over the place, and my own clients are in meltone.
Speaker 1: I know I've been absent, but it's not because of you.
Speaker 1: I wanted to believe him. For a heartbeat, I nearly
Speaker 1: nearly convinced myself. Then why have we barely seen Jordan
Speaker 1: or Amelia? Why do I feel like everyone s dodging me,
Speaker 1: I pressed, He paused, jaw working. Look, people are busy,
Speaker 1: and I don't want you to feel like you have
Speaker 1: to keep up with all my chaos. Maybe you should
Speaker 1: hang out with your crew a little clear your head.
Speaker 1: You know, how gentle, how generous to grant me permission
Speaker 1: to be alone, to pase my own loneliness as a
Speaker 1: wellness exercise, I stuffed down everything else that night. When
Speaker 1: I woke up to the light of his phone at
Speaker 1: two a m. And saw his thumb flicking urgently across
Speaker 1: the locked screen, I pretended not to notice. The trust
Speaker 1: between us felt like a torn net unraveled by too
Speaker 1: many small rips holding nothing from there. Nothing stayed still.
Speaker 1: Mutual friends declined invitations to group hangs. Sam left our
Speaker 1: shared Slack channel, blaming alerts overload. Even my favorite mug
Speaker 1: went missing, only later found in a duffel bag stuffed
Speaker 1: carelessly under the bed. In desperation, I checked our shared
Speaker 1: photo archive, thinking maybe I'd find some timeline to ground myself. Instead,
Speaker 1: I found a string of snaps from the night of
Speaker 1: the wedding. Sam and Emelia on the roof top cheeks flushed, smiles,
Speaker 1: hooked slightly towards each other. The moment I remembered as
Speaker 1: harmless now burned with context, the proximity, the casual brush
Speaker 1: of arms, the way my own face seemed just out
Speaker 1: of frame. I closed the gallery and sat on the floor,
Speaker 1: facing the silent fridge around me. The loft breeth ghosts.
Speaker 1: Then another text from Sam one afternoon might be a
Speaker 1: while to night. Team ran long, only Nina's group chat
Speaker 1: message dropped minutes later, hitting the train call if any
Speaker 1: mural emergencies, I'm out till Sunday. There it was, the
Speaker 1: lie made manifest, a paper trail of coincidence narrowed into conviction.
Speaker 1: One last hope flickered. Maybe I was reading it all wrong,
Speaker 1: piecing together unrelated fragments into a mosaic of betrayal that
Speaker 1: belonged to some one else. Maybe Sam was flailing, not cheating.
Speaker 1: Maybe Amelia's note was a poorly timed birthday message or
Speaker 1: a dramatic vent about some work crisis. But the truth
Speaker 1: had an inexorable gravity, and by then even I couldn't
Speaker 1: orbit far enough away. That Friday, the world tipped again.
Speaker 1: A group dinner Jordan's birthday, the kind of event where
Speaker 1: attendance was non negotiable. Sam was evasive, I might swing
Speaker 1: by late if the project raps, but eventually arrived two
Speaker 1: hours after everyone else, reeking faintly of whiskey and damp clothes,
Speaker 1: eyes rimmed red. The table fell silent as he slid
Speaker 1: in Beside me, Conversations stuttered and then rebounded in forced cheer.
Speaker 1: Amelia was there too, a cross and one seat down,
Speaker 1: picking at her pastor, doing everything not to meet my gaze.
Speaker 1: When I asked her a routine question about a new client,
Speaker 1: she gave a mechanical answer, her hands trembling as she
Speaker 1: reached for her wine. Later, as the check came and
Speaker 1: everyone started divvying up, I excused myself to the bathroom,
Speaker 1: running cold water over my wrists. Amelia followed a moment after,
Speaker 1: face pale. She waited until the stall door shut before whispering, Leela,
Speaker 1: I am sorry if I've been distant. Things have just
Speaker 1: been weired lately. I hope you know it's not you.
Speaker 1: I held her gaze in the mirror. I wish I
Speaker 1: knew what it was. Then she bit her lip, looked
Speaker 1: at her shoes. It's just the group's complicated right now, then,
Speaker 1: so quietly. I almost missed it. You should talk to Sam.
Speaker 1: He owes you that much. By then my hands shook
Speaker 1: with effort. I nodded, unable to answer, and left first.
Speaker 1: At the end of the night, as we stood waiting
Speaker 1: for rides, Sam nudged my elbow walk home with me.
Speaker 1: His voice was soft, tired. We trudged in silence for
Speaker 1: three blocks, rain threatening and never arriving, street lights warping
Speaker 1: puddles into yellow blurs. When we reached our building, he
Speaker 1: finally turned to me. You deserve better than this, Leela.
Speaker 1: I'm sorry things have been off. I couldn't tell if
Speaker 1: it was apology or confession. I wanted to say something,
Speaker 1: demand the whole truth right here, but I couldn't find
Speaker 1: the words. Instead, I led us both back into the
Speaker 1: elevator and watched street light pat in his face, waiting
Speaker 1: for something to break Inside. I opened the kitchen window
Speaker 1: and lit a candle, pretending to be absorbed in the
Speaker 1: city's nighttime hum. Sam hovered near the bedroom door, waiting
Speaker 1: for a cue or maybe an absolution. Eventually he retreated,
Speaker 1: and I was left with the low murmur of tires
Speaker 1: on wet asphalt and the sense that everything was holding
Speaker 1: its breath. It was only after the candle had gutted
Speaker 1: out that I remembered the note in its hiding place,
Speaker 1: pressed between volumes of old cook books that neither of
Speaker 1: us had picked up in months. The urge to confront
Speaker 1: him immediately waved the battered rectangle under his nose. Demand
Speaker 1: to know just how much of my life had been
Speaker 1: rebuilt on lies was almost overwhelming. But I didn't, not yet,
Speaker 1: not with Amelia's words ringing in my head, not with
Speaker 1: the brittle edge to Sam's voice suggesting even he no
Speaker 1: longer believed his own denials. Instead, I lay awake, the
Speaker 1: city's engines humming a lullaby of dear distraction, while I
Speaker 1: built a mental timeline, mapping every weekend, every slip, stacking
Speaker 1: every apology against every laugh that echoed just a second
Speaker 1: too long in another room. By Saturday, I was running
Speaker 1: on willpower. The wedding now existed in my memory as
Speaker 1: a kind of fulcrum, and everything before and everything after.
Speaker 1: I scrolled back through texts from that night, searching for clues. Sam,
Speaker 1: dance with me me, if you can pry Amelia away
Speaker 1: from the bourbon bar. That line snapped at me. Now
Speaker 1: in hindsight, a joke, but closer to the truth than
Speaker 1: I could have guessed. A direct confrontation was becoming inevitable,
Speaker 1: but I hesitated. I wanted a map, not just for myself,
Speaker 1: but for when I finally asked the questions that could
Speaker 1: not be unasked. That afternoon, I gathered every piece of evidence,
Speaker 1: Amelia's note, the receipt, screenshots from Sam's draft emails, snippets
Speaker 1: of texts and ig posts, carefully, as if assembling case
Speaker 1: filed for some interior trial. I told myself I was
Speaker 1: looking for a loophole, a saving inconsistency, a piece that
Speaker 1: did not fit. But everything locked together too smoothly. I
Speaker 1: found myself wishing the lies had been sloppier, more careless. Instead,
Speaker 1: they were curated, maintained, with the minimum disclosure necessary to
Speaker 1: keep the fronts aligned, the friendships intact, at least on
Speaker 1: the surface. With my heart banging in my ribs, I
Speaker 1: texted Jordan again as simple, are you awake? It was late,
Speaker 1: probably too late for a call, but within two minutes
Speaker 1: he replied, can talk now if you need I'm here.
Speaker 1: It was all I'd needed, permission not to hold it
Speaker 1: alone any longer. I called voice trembling and said, only
Speaker 1: it's Sam and Amelia, isn't it. Jordan sighed something heavy
Speaker 1: in that breath. Aye, I messed up. I thought I
Speaker 1: could just stay out of it. But yeah, after the
Speaker 1: wedding it got weird. They were, you know, talking more,
Speaker 1: going off on their own. I thought it was just
Speaker 1: old friends catching up, but then he trailed off. I
Speaker 1: waited silent. It's not your fault, he said, finally, I
Speaker 1: know it's not what you wanted to hear. If you
Speaker 1: need somewhere to stay our couches open. Tears came this time.
Speaker 1: I let them, muffling my sobs into my sleeve. He
Speaker 1: held the silence with me, no pressure, only shared useless regret.
Speaker 1: When we hung up, I felt emptied out, but not alone.
Speaker 1: That was something, at least. I put my phone away,
Speaker 1: stared up at the tall, cracked ceiling, and let the
Speaker 1: noise settle around me. The truth was solid now and yielding, sharp,
Speaker 1: impossible to dissolve. What came next would be confrontation. The
Speaker 1: breach made visible the moment when silence failed and the
Speaker 1: rest of my life cracked open, but for now suspended
Speaker 1: in the humming dark, I waited grieving not only Sam,
Speaker 1: but Amelia and the whole scaffolding of trust i'd mistaken
Speaker 1: for bedrock. I didn't really sleep, not the kind of
Speaker 1: sleep that restores anyway, just that fitful underwater state where
Speaker 1: you surface at every sound, every angle, your mind hammering
Speaker 1: out contingencies and fragments of remembered evidence. I felt almost
Speaker 1: cold with vigilance. I watched the pale dawn bleed into
Speaker 1: the window, listening for footsteps, a cough, any sign that
Speaker 1: Sam was waking up in the other room. The loft
Speaker 1: felt too big and too small, each familiar feature charged
Speaker 1: now with that paradox. You live somewhere for years, but
Speaker 1: to night the furniture is the border of a battlefield.
Speaker 1: At some point I heard Sam moving, quiet, his steps deliberate,
Speaker 1: as though reluctant to disturb even the pots in the sink.
Speaker 1: I didn't move. I could hear him hesitate in the
Speaker 1: doorway before he slipped out to the kitchen, the muted
Speaker 1: clink of a coffee mug, the discreet rush of water
Speaker 1: into the kettle. For years that sound had meant safety.
Speaker 1: Now it hooded my breath in dread. I counted down
Speaker 1: he would look for me, perhaps try to act as
Speaker 1: if nothing was wrong. I stayed curled on the far
Speaker 1: edge of the bed, watching how sunlight crept across the
Speaker 1: crack in the wood floor. When I finally sat up,
Speaker 1: I could hear him in the shower, oddly quiet, as
Speaker 1: though afraid of the pipe's betraying him. I got up,
Speaker 1: listless and dug through the folder where I'd gathered Amelia's
Speaker 1: note and the printed e mails. Setting them where I
Speaker 1: couldn't ignore the evidence. I left them on the kitchen table.
Speaker 1: It felt deliberate and ugly, a silent dare. Sam emerged,
Speaker 1: towel draped, blinking, seeming to relax when he saw me
Speaker 1: moving around the kitchen. He started to say something ordinary,
Speaker 1: did you sleep? But his gaze froze on the stack
Speaker 1: of paper, Amelia's handwriting, the curly LSS, the damning phrases.
Speaker 1: The split second his eyes snapped from the note to me.
Speaker 1: I felt my backb and go molten. I didn't want
Speaker 1: to start, but here we were, gravity drawing us together.
Speaker 1: I read them, I said, My voice was hoarse, weaker
Speaker 1: than I wanted. I know everything. I left the papers
Speaker 1: there in plain sight, evidence between us, like a boarder.
Speaker 1: No one could raise. Sam stared at the evidence between us,
Speaker 1: then away, and back again. He didn't reach for the
Speaker 1: note or the EMIL print outs. His hand hovered, then
Speaker 1: dropped Leela. He said, voice cracked. Let me, Can I
Speaker 1: explain now? The aftermath was in motion. He hovered behind
Speaker 1: the counter, as if the kitchen island was a barrier
Speaker 1: he could still rely on. It was never supposed to happen.
Speaker 1: He started classic, Ay, I don't even know where to start.
Speaker 1: There came a tired defiance into my chest. I wanted
Speaker 1: to shout, I wanted to sob. Instead, I just said,
Speaker 1: try the truth start anywhere. He opened and closed his mouth.
Speaker 1: The night of the wedding, you and I were fine.
Speaker 1: We were, but it felt like everyone was celebrating something
Speaker 1: I couldn't touch. I'd had too much to drink. Amelia
Speaker 1: and I we talked, We went outside for air. One
Speaker 1: thing led to another. It was a mistake, the simplest version,
Speaker 1: the one people always reach for. I spat out before
Speaker 1: I could help it. So what, you just tripped and
Speaker 1: fell into someone else's arms. Sam actually winced. No, I
Speaker 1: mean yes, but it wasn't simple. She's your friend. I
Speaker 1: know that. I never planned we were both a little lost.
Speaker 1: You've been busy, you kept winning, and I felt, I
Speaker 1: don't know, shut out. You cheated because you felt left out.
Speaker 1: My voice was quiet, detached. I could hear myself from
Speaker 1: a distance. He dropped his eyes. It wasn't just that
Speaker 1: we connected on work's stress and stuff. You'd laugh off
Speaker 1: just landed with her. I don't know why I let
Speaker 1: it happen. I cut across him. How many times he
Speaker 1: shook his head, jaw flexing a few. It wasn't some
Speaker 1: long affair after the wedding and again maybe three I
Speaker 1: don't even know how to count, Leela, what counts? I
Speaker 1: thought of the emails, the receipts, the note, try all
Speaker 1: of it. Try every minute you lied. Did you ever
Speaker 1: think about stopping? He rubbed his face. She ended it finally,
Speaker 1: guilt mostly said we couldn't keep this up. I told
Speaker 1: her I'd try to fix things with you. She wanted
Speaker 1: us all to move on. I've been trying, Leela, I swear.
Speaker 1: A silence yawned between us, the hum of the refrigerator,
Speaker 1: the far off screech of a delivery truck. I could
Speaker 1: feel myself trembling, but I pressed, were you ever going
Speaker 1: to tell me or was this just going to be
Speaker 1: my fault for not guessing soon enough? He opened his mouth, stopped,
Speaker 1: then whispered no. I thought I'd just let it fade.
Speaker 1: If Amelia could act like nothing happened, maybe it would disappear.
Speaker 1: That was it, the real problem. If no one names it,
Speaker 1: it vanishes right until the rot cracks everything open. Anyway,
Speaker 1: I never wanted to hurt you, he finished, his voice,
Speaker 1: finally breaking and tears streaming now unbidden. I didn't want
Speaker 1: to lose this us over something so stupid. My throat ached,
Speaker 1: But you did. You lost it anyway. I waited for
Speaker 1: him to argue, to grovel, to protest that it could
Speaker 1: be different, but Sam didn't rush in. He scrubbed his
Speaker 1: hand through his hair, then let his head fall forward.
Speaker 1: Shoulders slumped. I'm sorry, I really am, some sharp, cold
Speaker 1: thing inside me finally slid free. I stood each motion deliberate.
Speaker 1: I wanted to go fast, but my body felt as
Speaker 1: if I were moving through syrup. I didn't look at
Speaker 1: him again, just turned for the hallway, willing each step
Speaker 1: to be steady. Behind me, Sam's breath hitched, but he
Speaker 1: didn't stop me. That last unbridgable gap felt final. I
Speaker 1: didn't slow down. I packed, with methodical efficiency, an armful
Speaker 1: of clothes, my essential toiletries, the sketch book, laptop, charger, wallet,
Speaker 1: the things that defined the border of me, things untouched
Speaker 1: by his hands, his taste, his permission. I found the
Speaker 1: overnight bag, I took camping and loaded my essentials on top.
Speaker 1: I placed my keys. I paused, scanning the loft for
Speaker 1: anything sentimental. But everything that should have felt safe or
Speaker 1: meaningful now looked dangerous and sabotaged. A shaky breath in
Speaker 1: wearing the practiced blank of some one whose soul is
Speaker 1: in triage. I moved into our small laundry alcove running
Speaker 1: water to clear the last mug i'd used, the one
Speaker 1: Sam never bothered with because he claimed the handle was
Speaker 1: too stubby. I put it on the drying rack anyway,
Speaker 1: unwilling to leave even a small mess. I avoided the
Speaker 1: mirrors as I went. It was easier to be no
Speaker 1: one for now, a ghost in my own life, drifting
Speaker 1: through routines by necessity. He didn't follow. The silence left
Speaker 1: in my wake was absolute. Every friendly object felt poisoned,
Speaker 1: a shadow of how easily loved could be corrupted by omission,
Speaker 1: by cowardice, by the endless hope that truth could be
Speaker 1: bargained down to something painless. I texted a co worker, Anna,
Speaker 1: the only person neutral enough that she wouldn't ask probing
Speaker 1: questions or try to fix me. Any chance you have
Speaker 1: space for a guest to night. I promised to leave
Speaker 1: before you've had your first coffee. Her reply was instant,
Speaker 1: no questions, always wine waiting on the table, Just buzz
Speaker 1: when you're here. As I zipped the bag, Sam finally
Speaker 1: stepped into the doorway. He looked stripped of all his armor,
Speaker 1: hair wild, face, still wet, posture collapsed. Can we talk? Please?
Speaker 1: Just don't go, not yet. My voice shook, but I
Speaker 1: didn't let it break. I have nothing else, not now.
Speaker 1: I need out of this room, at least out of
Speaker 1: your reach. He looked like he might argue, might beg again,
Speaker 1: but he just nodded, sinking to the floor beside the
Speaker 1: kitchen table. I'm sorry, he said, one last time, and
Speaker 1: in that moment I couldn't tell if it was for
Speaker 1: me or for himself. I left the apartment with my bag,
Speaker 1: letting the door click quietly behind me, feeling the air
Speaker 1: rush past, as if even the hallway wanted to push
Speaker 1: me away. My emotional center felt cowed out, leaving a
Speaker 1: brittle rind at Anna's I was let in with a
Speaker 1: hug and dealt nothing but simple kindness. A feuton made
Speaker 1: up with fresh sheets, a cup of herbal tea, a
Speaker 1: movie playing quietly in the background. The room smelled like
Speaker 1: lemon and basle, the safe sense of a life untouched
Speaker 1: by my disaster. I kept my phone face down. Messages
Speaker 1: from Sam scrolled past, Please explanations, one abortive, Can we just?
Speaker 1: But I didn't respond. I set my status on mute
Speaker 1: for the mutual chats, needing the world to shrink until
Speaker 1: only silence remained. Within an hour, Amelia tried to call
Speaker 1: I let it ring through, then blocked her number. I
Speaker 1: did the same with Sam, and cold as it felt,
Speaker 1: left a clipped message on our group thread, taking time.
Speaker 1: Please nobody contact me about Sam or Amelia. I mean it.
Speaker 1: The replies from Jordan and Nina were brief. They knew
Speaker 1: I could feel their understanding as real as their regret,
Speaker 1: but I didn't reach back. Anna gave me space, tending
Speaker 1: only to the edges. She left a folded note on
Speaker 1: the night stand that just read here if when you
Speaker 1: need some time. Later that night, lost in the static
Speaker 1: of too much reality, my mother called. I answered on
Speaker 1: the second ring, voice already rough. Her voice was small
Speaker 1: and worried, tired with concern. It's over, I managed, don't
Speaker 1: ask for details. She only said come home if you want,
Speaker 1: or call. That's all. I was grateful for the simplicity.
Speaker 1: I listened to the city outside the small guest room window,
Speaker 1: this unfamiliar hush. Even alone, the world felt smaller than
Speaker 1: I thought. I lay on my back, eyes tracking shadows
Speaker 1: on the ceiling, and counted ours as if they could
Speaker 1: lead me through. The Next morning, reality drilled in by degrees.
Speaker 1: I co ordinated by text with Sam to pick up
Speaker 1: the rest of my things, books, a second bag of clothes,
Speaker 1: my climbing gear. We agreed on times, with the barest courtesy.
Speaker 1: Each message clipped mechanical. He would be out during the
Speaker 1: slot we arranged. I would not see him again. I
Speaker 1: left my key on the table beside the note and
Speaker 1: the last mug. I deleted joint calendar events, removed myself
Speaker 1: from the photo archive, left every channel or group that
Speaker 1: had Sam and Leela in the name, It was almost surgical,
Speaker 1: removing ties, erasing reminders, claiming whatever space remained as my own.
Speaker 1: I checked my phone one last time before leaving the loft.
Speaker 1: A final message from Amelia glow. I'm sorry. I don't
Speaker 1: expect forgiveness. I hope some day you can hate me
Speaker 1: less than I hate myself. I didn't answer. I blocked
Speaker 1: her name. Grace wasn't mine to give, and I refused
Speaker 1: to pretend otherwise. I set up a quick Venmo request
Speaker 1: to settle shared bills, utilities, groceries, the subscriptions we pretended
Speaker 1: would last forever. Not once in all of this did
Speaker 1: I feel vindicated, only exhausted, washed thin by the enormity
Speaker 1: of what even small betrayals can cost. I took the
Speaker 1: final look at the loft from the threshold. Lights streamed
Speaker 1: through the high windows, illuminating dust and old coffee stains,
Speaker 1: a world that looked at a glance, almost unchanged. My
Speaker 1: chest ached with all I was leaving behind. I didn't
Speaker 1: lock the door, just closed it carefully and left the
Speaker 1: echoing hall to swallow. The sound outside. The air was
Speaker 1: sharp and cold, a reminder that pain was a kind
Speaker 1: of proof I was still real. I tightened my grip
Speaker 1: on my bag, spines, stealing itself, feet forced forward. Each
Speaker 1: step away from the building felt more defiant than the last,
Speaker 1: a separation not just from Sam, but from the thin
Speaker 1: layer of denial I'd wrapped around my life for too long.
Speaker 1: I turned off all notifications from group threads Nina Jordan,
Speaker 1: the remnants of a friend's circle. I understood now the
Speaker 1: cost of silence. How easy it had been for every
Speaker 1: one to wait for the storm to pass, hoping not
Speaker 1: to get wet. I would not owe any one more
Speaker 1: explanation than necessary. The memory of the wedding, the swirl
Speaker 1: of laughter, Amelia's hand on Sam's elbow, the bright, brittle
Speaker 1: glow of a night meant for celebration, played in my
Speaker 1: mind with cruel clarity. I could finally see every gesture
Speaker 1: for what it was. I requested a ride share, climbing
Speaker 1: inside without looking back at the door. The city ran
Speaker 1: past in grayed, distorted panels as we wove away from
Speaker 1: the life I'd thought was permanent. At Anna's, my bag
Speaker 1: opened easily on the same futon, my sketch book tumbling free.
Speaker 1: I stared at it for a long time, not trusting
Speaker 1: my hands, I put it in the closet instead kneading
Speaker 1: it to rest, needing to rest myself. The first thing
Speaker 1: I did was change my lockscreen, erasing the one remaining
Speaker 1: photo of Sam, the two of us at the Joshua
Speaker 1: Tree trailhead faces, sunburned, arms looped around each other. I
Speaker 1: picked an empty field of wild flowers, shot last winter, untouched,
Speaker 1: impossible to fake. That night, the friend group was eerily quiet.
Speaker 1: I saw no new DMS, no chatter, only the hush
Speaker 1: of mutual discomfort, the weight of too many complicit silences.
Speaker 1: I didn't regret how I'd drawn the line. I was
Speaker 1: finished explaining, finished performing grief so others could absorb its.
Speaker 1: Second hand, packing up the basics in Anna's apartment, I
Speaker 1: sorted my belongs with a kind of numb precision. Toothbrush,
Speaker 1: sketch pens, hoodie, climbing sh shoes, charge a chords. I
Speaker 1: tossed everything else, old bits, souvenirs, Sam's T shirt that
Speaker 1: had migrated into my drawer, into a bag for charity.
Speaker 1: I made a list of the practical details to solve next,
Speaker 1: more boxes, a sublet, a new gym membership somewhere across town.
Speaker 1: But first I needed a moment where I didn't have
Speaker 1: to make decisions. When Anna came home late from work,
Speaker 1: she set a cup of tea beside me. We watched
Speaker 1: the ceiling, said nothing, and let time run quiet. I
Speaker 1: was grateful for a silence that for once belonged to
Speaker 1: no one but me. It rained that night, for the
Speaker 1: first time in weeks, I let myself hear. The storm
Speaker 1: turned the streets to rivers, no longer a sign of loneliness,
Speaker 1: but a ritual washing things away. The next morning, I
Speaker 1: woke up before sunrise. I dressed in clean, unbranded clothes,
Speaker 1: laced my sneakers, and sat by the window facing east.
Speaker 1: Anna's apartment was on a quieter street, one without the
Speaker 1: racket of construction trucks and creative class cyclists. The city
Speaker 1: pulsed but muted. I opened my phone, hesitated, then finally
Speaker 1: deleted the group chat completely, even my back up archive
Speaker 1: of texts and photos. The liberation was small, but concrete.
Speaker 1: There was something I needed to do, a decisive act
Speaker 1: to put my life back on axis, even just for
Speaker 1: a moment. I needed to reclaim what was left, even
Speaker 1: if it was only space and air and the feeling
Speaker 1: of my own mind untroubled for a narrow slice of time.
Speaker 1: I left Anna a note, be back soon, thank you
Speaker 1: for the oxygen. I walked the city. Blocks clicking past
Speaker 1: my feet led me, without conscious design, to coffee shop
Speaker 1: I'd loved before, Sam, before the circle, before the whole
Speaker 1: story had become something I'd narrate, even to myself in
Speaker 1: the second person. The inside was full of strangers, neutral
Speaker 1: faces buried in life, laptops and headphones, bodies hunched over
Speaker 1: weathered wooden tables. I stood in line, ordered a black coffee,
Speaker 1: and found a seat by the front window. The barista
Speaker 1: slid a paper cup across the counter, warmth seeping into
Speaker 1: my palms. I leaned forward and for a moment let
Speaker 1: the sun warm my cheek. After a long while, I
Speaker 1: reached into my bag for my sketch book. The pages
Speaker 1: were thick, still blank. I flipped open to the center,
Speaker 1: my pencil hovering, unsure at first, but steadied by the
Speaker 1: necessary act of creation. I drew at first nothing in particular,
Speaker 1: just marks, lines with form, but no plan. Then I
Speaker 1: let myself commit to something. The curve of a horizon,
Speaker 1: a jagged silhouette that could be mountain or cliff, or
Speaker 1: the line between two disparate worlds, the surface quiet above,
Speaker 1: chaos below. My hands worked without my permission, mapping a
Speaker 1: territory I didn't need to justify to any one any more.
Speaker 1: I filled half the cage before pausing, Catching my reflection
Speaker 1: in the window pin I saw myself alone, but not collapsed,
Speaker 1: fragile but deafenite, the outline held by my own skin.
Speaker 1: I whispered under my breath to see if I could
Speaker 1: still say it. Above the surface, my hand hovered over
Speaker 1: the paper pencil, trembling, not out of fear but exhaustion.
Speaker 1: The coffee shop, with its background drone of espresso machines
Speaker 1: and the occasional laughter from the baristas, dissolved to a
Speaker 1: dim hum. There was a strange fullness and emptiness at once,
Speaker 1: as if my very self were surfacing after weeks under water.
Speaker 1: For a few minutes, all that existed was the pressure
Speaker 1: of graphite against sturdy paper, and the careful, practiced lines
Speaker 1: that needed no one else's permission. I could feel the
Speaker 1: chilly air coil around my ankles, smelt the wet wool
Speaker 1: of my jackets slung over the neighboring chair, Sunlight just
Speaker 1: a finger's breadth cut through the clouded window and drew
Speaker 1: a soft band across my sketch, one comfort entirely of
Speaker 1: my own making. I noticed with some distant amusement the
Speaker 1: paint on my hiking shoes, a remnant from our last
Speaker 1: mural project, long before crisis eclipsed everything else. I pressed
Speaker 1: my thumb into a pale turquoise stain, grounding myself. I
Speaker 1: allowed ten deep breaths, let the city spin. I would
Speaker 1: not spend to day assembling story lens for any one
Speaker 1: else's comfort, but the stillness didn't hold. I sipped at
Speaker 1: my coffee, cold now, and the taste pulled me toward
Speaker 1: a clarity that was oddly bracing. There was work to do,
Speaker 1: not practical work, but the kind that forced you to
Speaker 1: make decisions about what to keep and what to discard
Speaker 1: in the wake of collapse. My phone buzzed in my
Speaker 1: pocket for an insane instant, A part of me atee
Speaker 1: to read a message from Sam, some new confession, some
Speaker 1: desperate plea to stitch us back together. But I already
Speaker 1: knew what I'd see. Nothing I needed, nothing that would
Speaker 1: change the outcome. I left the phone face down on
Speaker 1: the table. I shifted on my creaking chair and looked around.
Speaker 1: The crowd had changed. No one paid any attention to me.
Speaker 1: No one knew I deed detonated my entire life forty
Speaker 1: eight hours earlier. That anonymity felt powerful. My drink finished,
Speaker 1: I closed my sketch book and slipped it back in
Speaker 1: my bag, rubbing the worn spine with my thumb. My
Speaker 1: hands felt steadier now than they had in days. I
Speaker 1: stood muscles protesting, and retraced my steps outside, blending into
Speaker 1: a light mid morning drizzle. For a few blocks, I
Speaker 1: simply walked, no destination. My body moved out of old,
Speaker 1: stubborn habit. Each crosswalk, each shop window, was a reminder
Speaker 1: that the world continued to exist without Sam, without Amelia,
Speaker 1: without the scaffolding that used to prop up my life.
Speaker 1: There were more choices still to make, more consequences bearing
Speaker 1: down in the days to come, Furniture to sell or store,
Speaker 1: mail to reroot, practicalities that would buy if I ignored them.
Speaker 1: I let those realities stack up in my head like boxes.
Speaker 1: One step at a time, I told myself. But that
Speaker 1: wasn't the part I dreaded. The consequences I couldn't outpace
Speaker 1: were logistical, they were human. Eventually, there would be more
Speaker 1: fall out with the group, the awkward run ins, the
Speaker 1: division of loyalty among old friends who'd rather simply not know.
Speaker 1: There would be the emails from clients who still thought
Speaker 1: Sam and I were a package deal, the acquaintances who
Speaker 1: would piece together their own version of the break. At
Speaker 1: some point, I would have to share some permutation of
Speaker 1: the story with people who wouldn't know what to say.
Speaker 1: I resented that even now, Sam's choices meant I'd have
Speaker 1: to become a curator of those silences too. Later that afternoon,
Speaker 1: Anna texted me at work. Sam es been trying to
Speaker 1: drop by the building. Do you want me to block him?
Speaker 1: I smiled grimly. Her loyalty was practical a slated shield.
Speaker 1: Yeah please, I replied. If he presses, just tell him
Speaker 1: I won't see him. I mean it. Anna confirmed, no drama,
Speaker 1: just execution. She mentioned in the next breath that a
Speaker 1: guy from our shared Jim, had message to ask about
Speaker 1: Thursday sessions. Can I tell him your taking a season
Speaker 1: off climbing, I almost laughed, Tell him I'll be back
Speaker 1: when my hands stopped shaking, I wrote, honesty, mercifully vague.
Speaker 1: As I moved through those small administrative closures, the true
Speaker 1: cost began to settle. The people weren't just gone from
Speaker 1: my daily life, they were gone from the terrain of
Speaker 1: my future. Each person would rewrite their own version of events,
Speaker 1: some out of self preservation, others out of embarrassment. I
Speaker 1: was left with the luxury of no longer having to
Speaker 1: explain myself to Sam, but also with the tax of
Speaker 1: eventually having to explain myself to everyone else. Somewhere in
Speaker 1: the back of my mind, anger flared at Amelia, not
Speaker 1: just for her betrayal, but for the particular cruelty of
Speaker 1: knowing ex exactly how much trust she'd cost me on
Speaker 1: all sides. I remembered the first night she'd shown up
Speaker 1: at the loft for takeout and draft sketches years ago,
Speaker 1: how I joked that she was the sister voice of
Speaker 1: reason I'd never had. Her laughter echoed as a memory
Speaker 1: with sharp edges farther away than childhood. I didn't want
Speaker 1: to know what Amelia told herself now, if she imagined
Speaker 1: that some day we'd rebuild, or if she'd already box
Speaker 1: me up as a regrettable footnote in her own life.
Speaker 1: Some part of me still vibrated with the desire to
Speaker 1: scream at her, at least to force her to admit
Speaker 1: what she'd destroyed. But every step toward confrontation now just
Speaker 1: seemed like another wound, and I was done giving her
Speaker 1: real estate in my head. She could tell whatever story strung.
Speaker 1: Least there was one piece left to face, though. At
Speaker 1: some point I'd have to check Sam's last messages, the
Speaker 1: ones I'd ignored but hadn't cleared, the voice mails piling
Speaker 1: up in the unanswered stack. I waited until late back
Speaker 1: at Anna's, when and the world had quieted to the
Speaker 1: buzz of a single lamp and the distant whistle of
Speaker 1: a city bus breaking through the night. I put in
Speaker 1: my headphones and pressed play. His voice was hoarse, exhausted, clipped,
Speaker 1: pleading but measured, Leela, I know you won't answer. I
Speaker 1: just I need you to hear me. I know I
Speaker 1: lost everything worth having. I don't expect you to forgive me.
Speaker 1: JUST want to say it that I'm sorry. This isn't
Speaker 1: how I wanted anything to end. I wish I'd been braver.
Speaker 1: I hope if there's any world where this doesn't define us,
Speaker 1: where you're not haunted by what I did, I hope
Speaker 1: you find it I'll stay out of your way now.
Speaker 1: I'm sorry. He hung up. There were two more like it.
Speaker 1: I deleted them all. I sat for a moment, feeling
Speaker 1: the ache behind my throat, the urge to respond surging
Speaker 1: and burning away. Just as quickly. I was grateful for
Speaker 1: the curtain of technological barriers, the mute, the block, the
Speaker 1: act of erasing some one's access to your mind. It
Speaker 1: felt like a final door closing, quieter than I'd expected.
Speaker 1: With the last message gone, a cool stillness settled in.
Speaker 1: I glanced at myself in the dark window, hair wild,
Speaker 1: eyes bruised but present. The reflection wasn't exactly reassuring, but
Speaker 1: it was honest. There would be more work to do,
Speaker 1: more grief and more rebuilding, But for now, there was
Speaker 1: nothing left to give, not to Sam, not to Amelia,
Speaker 1: not to any vision of the wee I'd been part
Speaker 1: of for so long. I found my sketch book again,
Speaker 1: Flipping through the rough pages. Lines crossed and collided accidents
Speaker 1: became shapes, the suggestion of a person climbing, not fleeing,
Speaker 1: not falling, just laboring steadily upward away from a field
Speaker 1: of black marks that could have been debris or just
Speaker 1: the chaos left behind. Rain rang quietly down the apartment window,
Speaker 1: blurring the city lights into something gentle, even beautiful. I
Speaker 1: pressed my palm against the glass, feeling the cold. There
Speaker 1: in the hush, I let go of the need to
Speaker 1: understand how all of it had gone wrong, trading it
Speaker 1: instead for a brittle, radical act of self sufficiency. If
Speaker 1: I was to surface alone, then at least it would
Speaker 1: be on my own terms. The story didn't resolve. There
Speaker 1: were no answers echoing in the silence, just the knowledge
Speaker 1: that above the surface, I was still breathing, and that
Speaker 1: would have to be enough.