Speaker 1: Remissed calls, two half finished drinks, one empty seat. There's
Speaker 1: a pocket in every performance that's meant for Adam. To
Speaker 1: night at Mohawk's open mic, I feel the space beside
Speaker 1: me as if it aches The dim, sticky wood of
Speaker 1: the table under my thumb is oddly comforting, some weird
Speaker 1: sense memory from a hundred shows, a thousand nights out
Speaker 1: where we'd WinCE at bad poetry, tip musicians more generously
Speaker 1: than their talent justified, and laugh about discovering the next
Speaker 1: Austin legend before they self destructed. But I'm alone, nursing
Speaker 1: a local ipa I don't even want, and my thumbs
Speaker 1: scrolling through Adam's last text again, rereading the same line
Speaker 1: as the crowd ripples, and a new guitarist tunes up.
Speaker 1: Sorry running late shelters, A zoo might crash here to
Speaker 1: finish the grant paperwork. He promised he'd swing by after
Speaker 1: the meeting, which sounded at first like classic Adam building
Speaker 1: something for the sea, giving the world a little more
Speaker 1: of himself than it had earned. That's what I always admired,
Speaker 1: or maybe envied about him. I type a quick reply,
Speaker 1: all good, break a leg with the grants. I try
Speaker 1: to make the blue delivered dot mean something, or take
Speaker 1: the sting out of the absence across the table, Leelah's
Speaker 1: squeezing a lemon wedge into her jeet tea. She raises
Speaker 1: her eyebrows. He bail again. I stifle a forced smile,
Speaker 1: brushing a stray strand out of my eyes. He's just
Speaker 1: swamped that non profit he started, street Link. They're up
Speaker 1: for a city contract or something. It's a big deal.
Speaker 1: Leelah waves her straw dismissively. Did Adam mention he was
Speaker 1: with Jess again? I swung by Caupomondo last night midnight Mayer,
Speaker 1: Adam and this woman. Neither of them notice me. She
Speaker 1: was all up in his laptop for a second. My
Speaker 1: laugh is almost real. Jess, who's that? Leelah grins, but
Speaker 1: she watches me. May be realizing I'm not up on
Speaker 1: current events. She's been volunteering at Streetlink for weeks. I
Speaker 1: thought Adam kept you in the loop. My mouth some
Speaker 1: neutral sound and look back at the stage. A young
Speaker 1: guy fumbles with his capo, the amps squealing, the crowd's murmuring.
Speaker 1: Leelah sets her drink down softly, seriously, they looked deep
Speaker 1: in work mode. You sure all's cool. Her hand lingers
Speaker 1: next to mine. She's trying to be protective, knowing, but
Speaker 1: she's also curious. Yeah, totally. He's just burning both ends,
Speaker 1: you know, Adam. My jaw holds the shape of the
Speaker 1: lye until Leela's gaze moves and the music drowns out
Speaker 1: the room's small betrayals. But now there's a tightness in
Speaker 1: my chest, a voice threading through the music, whispering that
Speaker 1: something about this isn't just sleep deprivation or passion for
Speaker 1: service work. Adam has never been a midnight coffee person,
Speaker 1: and for the first time, I can't decide if it's
Speaker 1: neurotic or necessary to one. Why coming home used to
Speaker 1: be effortless, the afterglow of a night out, the familiarity
Speaker 1: of duel keepads pinging as our lift wound back up
Speaker 1: South Lamar. Adam's sneakers were always thrown at odd angles
Speaker 1: near the door, mine tucked by the trash can. Even
Speaker 1: months into lockdown, we treached groceries on the tiny island
Speaker 1: under flickering Edison bulbs, debating the merits of oat milk
Speaker 1: and arguing about which of us would finally cave to
Speaker 1: Spotify Premium after another ad break murdered the mood. I'd
Speaker 1: PLoP onto the cro She'd poof. He'd cue up a playlist,
Speaker 1: some obscure synthpop with a back beat so infectious I'd
Speaker 1: forget whatever passive aggressive text I'd gotten from work that day.
Speaker 1: We trade stickers in slack through the walls, same rhythms,
Speaker 1: different months, five years. The first time I saw Adam,
Speaker 1: he was in a rival team at a city hackethon
Speaker 1: at the library, a thousand laptops whirring, stale pizza, energy
Speaker 1: drinks by the gallon. He kept mispronounced o'uth to troll
Speaker 1: the MC, and when our badge printers crashed three hours
Speaker 1: before the deadline, he jumped over with a stack overflow thread,
Speaker 1: no strings attached. We shared bodega snacks, jokes about rest
Speaker 1: API documentation, and an honest to god slow dance on
Speaker 1: top of a pile of bean bags after the prizes
Speaker 1: were handed out. That was how this started. Two smartasses,
Speaker 1: neither from Texas, making austin hours, one playlist and pop
Speaker 1: up at a time. By the end of year one,
Speaker 1: Adam was running a tiny dev team at a scrappy
Speaker 1: start up. I was hired at uex Frame, a design
Speaker 1: firm with way too many air plants. We survived day
Speaker 1: long festivals, heat waves, family holidays, and the kind of
Speaker 1: friend drama that would have driven most couples apart. We
Speaker 1: nested in a corner condo two blocks from a food
Speaker 1: truck court, framed by crowdsourced art projects, all recycled wood
Speaker 1: and neon. The walls were a crazy quilt of concert posters,
Speaker 1: some from our first weeks together, some scavenged late night,
Speaker 1: some meticulously preserved behind glass, all with little sticky notes
Speaker 1: recording the date and our private rating out of five stars.
Speaker 1: Our lives weren't seamless, but we trusted each other's rhythms.
Speaker 1: Adam was always the connector. He wanted friend groups to mingle.
Speaker 1: I was content to curate Thursdays for trivia with the
Speaker 1: music crowd, Sunday brunches for design friends, the occasional co
Speaker 1: ed kickball for flavor. Adam thrived in the overlap planning,
Speaker 1: potlucks or roof top pregames, where the only thing people
Speaker 1: had in common was that he'd decided they should. But
Speaker 1: that was last season's Adam. This spring Streetlink ate his calendar.
Speaker 1: He started carrying Mac books into the shower, working late,
Speaker 1: declining invites. It was good work, turning tech into real
Speaker 1: social change, but suddenly our music nights were broken place holders. Lately,
Speaker 1: all he wanted was to stay up with the street
Speaker 1: Link crew, prototyping or just hanging at their office, a
Speaker 1: room above a shelter in East Austin. Music was mostly gone.
Speaker 1: If I tried to suggest we host, he'd say, can
Speaker 1: we rain check tomorrow's big I figured it would pass
Speaker 1: founders get tunnel vision, just a phase, I told Priya,
Speaker 1: but the rituals slipped away. He'd always bristled at privacy,
Speaker 1: wanted everything open, shared finances, shared calendar, Even the contacts
Speaker 1: on our phones sinked. I used to tease him about
Speaker 1: bringing acquaintances home from meet ups, pushing our circles to combine.
Speaker 1: Now there were new names I hadn't met, slack threads.
Speaker 1: He wouldn't show after parties that weren't for plus ones.
Speaker 1: Most jarring, He'd grown protective of his street Link world.
Speaker 1: When I'd ask questions, he'd offer details about the mission
Speaker 1: or the code base, but stopped naming people like I
Speaker 1: wouldn't get it, or maybe shouldn't ask back at the show.
Speaker 1: Leela's laugh at the wrong lyric jars me. A week ago,
Speaker 1: I'd have thought nothing of Adam's Lake nights. Hadn't we
Speaker 1: always wanted purpose more than comfort. But the way He's
Speaker 1: talked around the details, the fatigue in his voice, the
Speaker 1: new insistence on friend group boundaries. It all lands differently now,
Speaker 1: like something essential has shifted in the current of us,
Speaker 1: and I'm pretending I don't feel the undertow. A day
Speaker 1: after Open Mike, I find myself googling jest street Link Austin.
Speaker 1: I stop after typing three letters, feeling ridiculous. This is neurosis,
Speaker 1: I tell myself, a symptom of pandemic burnout or maybe boredom.
Speaker 1: But curiosity wins. I see a LinkedIn a GitHub a face.
Speaker 1: She's a brunette with a nose ring and a list
Speaker 1: of Hackethon badges. As long as Adams. There are photos
Speaker 1: her at east Side pop ups, at a street Link
Speaker 1: fundraising booth, even at an event Adam never mentioned attending.
Speaker 1: Maybe he just forgot to tell me, Maybe it wasn't important. Still,
Speaker 1: Why coffee at midnight? Why the secrecy? My phone keeps
Speaker 1: lighting up with slack pings, prayer, asking about a brunch
Speaker 1: menu cat from work, reminding me of wire frames. Even
Speaker 1: Adam hey heading home late again, Keep dinner easy. I
Speaker 1: stare at the screen and struggle to reply timidly. I
Speaker 1: tap out. Are you coding with Jess? Leela mentions seeing
Speaker 1: you too, out, miss you? He replies fast, yup, we're
Speaker 1: testing some new integrations. Sorry for the radio silence. You
Speaker 1: still going to be up If it's not too late,
Speaker 1: I'll crash in or else tomorrow. I try not to
Speaker 1: pase the tone. Testing integrations is Adam's way of keeping
Speaker 1: things surface level, his short hand for don't dig. Something
Speaker 1: in me wants to push to see if he gets defensive,
Speaker 1: but I let the conversation go instead. I drift through Instagram,
Speaker 1: scrolling through memories six months ago, Adam in a ridiculous
Speaker 1: banana costume at Halloween Trivia, tagging both of us in
Speaker 1: the photo Power Couple music Nerds. Back then, he'd have
Speaker 1: spammed the group chat with memes, live blogged every odd
Speaker 1: ball attendee, dragged me along to every post show taco run.
Speaker 1: Now he says little and even less about Jess. Later
Speaker 1: in the week. I try to steer dinner past another
Speaker 1: rush job take out into a conversation with real bones.
Speaker 1: Adam answers my how was your day with a ninety
Speaker 1: second synopsis of grant paperwork, and when I mention the
Speaker 1: late night work session, he shrugs, volunteers are only free
Speaker 1: after work. You know it's nothing dramatic. He picks at
Speaker 1: his sh warmer, carefully dividing salad from rice, and pivots
Speaker 1: the topic to an email from his sister in Dallas.
Speaker 1: I nod along, burying the question I want to ask,
Speaker 1: if it's all so normal, why is it starting to
Speaker 1: feel like we're actors reading from different scripts? Two saturdays
Speaker 1: go by, Adam missus trivia two weeks in a row.
Speaker 1: Trivia has always been our thing, the one event where
Speaker 1: our friend groups naturally blur. No pressure. Each time I
Speaker 1: get a last minute notification on the shared calendar street
Speaker 1: link dev deploy late coding, he tells me not to
Speaker 1: wait up, but I hear the lift door bell at
Speaker 1: two thirty a m. The shuffle of shoes, and a careful,
Speaker 1: almost guilty quiet to his motions in the hall. His phone,
Speaker 1: once left charging openly on our night stand, is now
Speaker 1: always face down, notifications muted. I wake once thirsty to
Speaker 1: catch him typing in bed, blue light on his cheeks,
Speaker 1: hunched over slack. When he sees me, he clicks it
Speaker 1: off without a word. Even our shared life starts to
Speaker 1: collect dust. The playlist he curated for us once a
Speaker 1: weekly ritual, arguing over whose picked stream on Friday hasn't
Speaker 1: been updated in a month. He can't recall details from
Speaker 1: a friend's birthday, seems irritable about plans he used to
Speaker 1: anchor whole weekends around. At first, I decide it's temporary.
Speaker 1: Every one cycles through a funky season, but it builds.
Speaker 1: I notice the calendar now has swathes of blocked time,
Speaker 1: all marked event in all caps, sometimes tagged private. He's
Speaker 1: away for hours, sometimes overnight, allegedly crash coding with the
Speaker 1: street Link crew. When I ask for details, he's ready
Speaker 1: with vague enthusiasm. We hit MVP on the app to night,
Speaker 1: but zero specifics. One Thursday, I offer to bring by
Speaker 1: bean burritos for the team after work. Adam texts back immediately,
Speaker 1: don't it's chaotic. Tomorrow's better. I'm in the zone. When
Speaker 1: I say I want to see him later, he encourages
Speaker 1: me to hang with my music friends, insisting he'll make
Speaker 1: it up this weekend. He never does. Priya, who knows
Speaker 1: Adam as well as I do, corners me at coffee
Speaker 1: and blurts, are you guys okay? He seems, I don't
Speaker 1: know shut down lately. I try for an easy chuckle,
Speaker 1: but my voice sounds thin. He's just tired. Plus he's
Speaker 1: obsessed with this non profit you know how he is.
Speaker 1: Priya purses her lips, not buying it entirely. Just let
Speaker 1: me know if you need anything, okay. The next night,
Speaker 1: I'm at home sorting laundry when I notice Adam has
Speaker 1: left his Life saptop charger behind. Impulsively, I putter over
Speaker 1: to his work station to leave it on his desk.
Speaker 1: Then catch sight of something odd. There's a napkin under
Speaker 1: his keyboard, a logo from a bar. I've never seen
Speaker 1: him go to, a stylized turtle with a note scribbled
Speaker 1: thanks for picking up a Let's not make the boss
Speaker 1: wait too long. It's signed j my skin prickles. There
Speaker 1: are late charges in our joint account too. Lift rides
Speaker 1: ending in East Austin food at Watson's on Cesar Chavez
Speaker 1: and a forty dollars cash withdrawal at one forty two
Speaker 1: a m from a bar near street Link's office. Adam,
Speaker 1: who complains every time I use cash because it breaks
Speaker 1: the budget, now operating all in cash. At odd hours Saturday,
Speaker 1: I show up at street links pop up on South Congress, unannounced,
Speaker 1: using I brought coffee as my disguise. Adam's outside, fiddling
Speaker 1: with a banner, and the group seems genuinely pleased to
Speaker 1: see me, except for one person who's missing. I drop
Speaker 1: off the coffee, and as I turn to leave, a
Speaker 1: tall woman steps out from the shelter, her hair in
Speaker 1: a messy bun, sunglasses even in the shade, she walks
Speaker 1: directly to Adam. Their conversation is low. He doesn't introduce us.
Speaker 1: He turns when he sees me, pausing, flustered, and says, Babe,
Speaker 1: this is Jess jess Meier. He's awkward in a way
Speaker 1: that doesn't suit him. Jess nods and glances back at
Speaker 1: her phone, polite but with an arm's length coolness. I
Speaker 1: step aside to wipe spilled cream off my hand, listening
Speaker 1: to their chatter for a few beats. It's code talk,
Speaker 1: nothing personal, but Adam's sounds younger, with her looser. I
Speaker 1: walk home in the sun and can't decide if I
Speaker 1: made anything real out of that meeting or just fan
Speaker 1: the aching need to know more. Scrolling through Streetlink sight
Speaker 1: that night, I see photos of their last hackethon Adam
Speaker 1: and Jess crouched shoulder to shoulder over a laptop, her
Speaker 1: hand on his forearm, both grinning. The caption reads scaling
Speaker 1: up with help from our best. Adam never mentioned he
Speaker 1: would there that weekend. He told me he was home sick,
Speaker 1: catching up on sleep. I flip through Adam's Twitter, not
Speaker 1: private but lately inactive. The only reetweets were from weeks ago,
Speaker 1: all streetlink and civic engagement stuff, nothing personal. The lack
Speaker 1: of stray likes or comments from Jess doesn't comfort me.
Speaker 1: It feels calculated, not accidental. At dinner, I finally tiptoe
Speaker 1: closer to the cliff. You don't talk about Jess much.
Speaker 1: She seems cool. Leela said you guys were out late
Speaker 1: though coffee, He snorts. Everyone's on edge trying to deliver.
Speaker 1: She's new in town, hustles hard. Jess basically writes code
Speaker 1: in her sleep. Nothing weird, just tired, but then almost sheepish.
Speaker 1: He volunteers. She's intense, but don't worry. I keep her focused.
Speaker 1: The back handed assurance lands odd. If there was nothing
Speaker 1: to worry about, why bring it up. Later, Adam accidentally
Speaker 1: leaves his phone face up on the kitchen in Ireland.
Speaker 1: I spot a WhatsApp message from Jess on his notifications.
Speaker 1: Let's go over the outreach report before Andrew sees it.
Speaker 1: Meet you at the office. It's time stamped twelve eighteen.
Speaker 1: A m Adam hated Whatsap said it was for shady
Speaker 1: deals and international calls. Now he's apparently converted shared calender's
Speaker 1: morph into blank spots. Lift receipts spike on weeknights. I
Speaker 1: double check our budgets, convincing myself I'm not snooping, just
Speaker 1: managing our finances. It all paints a picture I can't
Speaker 1: quite interpret. Is this normal start up behavior or a
Speaker 1: secret life? Guilt mingles with anxiety. I hate myself for
Speaker 1: becoming the cartoon of a suspicious girl friend, but not
Speaker 1: enough to stop looking. Friday, Adam asks if he can
Speaker 1: have the place for a big donor video call. I
Speaker 1: head out to the park to kill time, resisting wild theories.
Speaker 1: Maybe he's prepping a surprise. Maybe not. That same day
Speaker 1: at trivia, our old crew keeps pressing about Adam's absence.
Speaker 1: Is he ghosting us? Did he finally run off with
Speaker 1: code girls? The questions are jokes mostly, but it unspools
Speaker 1: something inside me. He was always the glue, and now
Speaker 1: even our friends feel the void. I make excuses and
Speaker 1: text him a photo of the team holding a pen
Speaker 1: as a trophy for winning. Adam replies with a heart emoji,
Speaker 1: no joke, no inside reference. Saturday, I'm up late and
Speaker 1: see Adam's laptop open a zoom call, finishing with Jesse's
Speaker 1: name in the tab. I wait for him to mention
Speaker 1: it over breakfast. He doesn't. Instead, he takes his coffee
Speaker 1: into the office and closes the door, a rare move.
Speaker 1: That afternoon, I decide to drive to street Link's office,
Speaker 1: ignoring the flutter of anxiety that I'll look like a stalker.
Speaker 1: Maybe if I see for myself, I'll quell this spiral.
Speaker 1: The office is a bland cowaking space above a thrift store,
Speaker 1: badly lit and reeking of burnt espresso. The volunteers are
Speaker 1: busy stuffing hygiene kits and to walking shop. Jess is there,
Speaker 1: sleeves rolled, no make up, absorbed in a bug fix.
Speaker 1: Adam brightens upon seeing me, maybe a little too much.
Speaker 1: Jess glances up, nods politely, then disappears to the back.
Speaker 1: Adam offers a practiced smile. I didn't know you were
Speaker 1: coming by, but glad you did. He walks me out
Speaker 1: after ten awkward minutes, explaining things are nuts right now.
Speaker 1: Maybe we can have a proper lunch tomorrow. Driving home,
Speaker 1: I scroll regretfully through past voicemails from Adam. He used
Speaker 1: to be goofy, leaving long audio diaries of his thoughts
Speaker 1: from the bus. Now there's only efficient notes Eta home
Speaker 1: nine p M. Don't wait up, love you. The affection
Speaker 1: is thinner each week. Prayer texts. Adam espen oddly, stand
Speaker 1: offfich at parties, barely saying hi to old college friends,
Speaker 1: never bringing up street link unless someone else does. She
Speaker 1: asks if I'm okay. I respond that I'm just tired,
Speaker 1: which is part true. I debate everything. Maybe Adam's just
Speaker 1: needing more space, Maybe he's depressed. His energy is real,
Speaker 1: but so is the moodiness. Maybe he's fallen for the
Speaker 1: non profit or the rush of feeling needed. I try
Speaker 1: to remind myself of his integrity, the years of honesty,
Speaker 1: but memory is no comfort. Trust is only as strong
Speaker 1: as to day. The next week, during a thunderstorm, we're
Speaker 1: at dinner and the internet cuts out. It's rare, but cozy,
Speaker 1: used to be caused for an impromptu analog night board games,
Speaker 1: wine mixtapes. I try to recreate it. Adam is listless,
Speaker 1: answering most questions about street Link with its complicated or
Speaker 1: another day? Okay? I fumble toward directness. You've been gone
Speaker 1: a lot, we barely see each other. Is everything okay
Speaker 1: with us? My voice is gentle, but Adam flinches for
Speaker 1: an instant. He looks ready to talk, Then his phone vibrates.
Speaker 1: He glances at the screen, sighs, and says, I told
Speaker 1: you it's just launch stuff. I get it's hard, but
Speaker 1: this matters. He stands and disappears into the bedroom. Before
Speaker 1: I can even protest. One lonely night, unable to sleep,
Speaker 1: I drive by the Streetlink office. Adam isn't parked outside,
Speaker 1: but I recognize his ex colleagues. Prius a bar two
Speaker 1: doors down is lively. Strings of light through the rain,
Speaker 1: I watch feeling at once deranged and desperate. But I
Speaker 1: never see Adam emerge. I go home feeling ridiculous, hoping
Speaker 1: nobody I know saw me. A week passes, Adam's behavior stack,
Speaker 1: more hidden notifications, longer absences, a fresh lock code on
Speaker 1: his phone. Our joint finances are stressed. You ber rides
Speaker 1: at three a m. Cash tips at bars. He's never
Speaker 1: mentioned weird Amazon orders that show up half opened, always
Speaker 1: in his hands before I can ask. I'm not a luddite,
Speaker 1: but I do wonder when he became so meticulous about
Speaker 1: hiding traces. Was the urge sudden or slow? A new
Speaker 1: habit born of old trust gone stale. One evening, I
Speaker 1: try one last time to bridge the gap. Do you
Speaker 1: want me to help fundraise? I could pitch in on
Speaker 1: the sight or do promo. Adam practically recoils. You don't
Speaker 1: need to get sucked in. I promise the board no
Speaker 1: conflicts anyway. It's the first time he's ever invoked the board,
Speaker 1: whatever that means for a start up non profit. I
Speaker 1: swallow my annoyance, feeling more like an outsider in our
Speaker 1: own home than ever before. Prayer invites me for roof
Speaker 1: top drinks. The next day, you look like you haven't slept,
Speaker 1: she observes, pouring vodka into two mismatched cups. I know you, Maia,
Speaker 1: you knows dive when something's wrong. Say it. What can
Speaker 1: I say, really, that the man I've spent five years
Speaker 1: with his dissolving in plain sight, that I want the
Speaker 1: reassurance of being wrong Instead, I say, Adam's different. I
Speaker 1: want to trust him. Maybe it's just burn out. Prayer
Speaker 1: is silent a long time, then reaches over to squeeze
Speaker 1: my fingers. Let me know if you ever want back up.
Speaker 1: We kend rolls in. Adam tells me he's skipping my
Speaker 1: friend Danny's house party, which he secretly loves, because he
Speaker 1: can't bail on a team sprint that night. Priya sends
Speaker 1: a snap from the party, blurry full of color. Every
Speaker 1: one but us. I stare at the phone so long
Speaker 1: the screen dims. Spend Sunday alone, wandering lady birdleg scrolling
Speaker 1: podcasts with earbuds barely in, trying not to imagine Adam's
Speaker 1: life running parallel to mine Somewhere I'm no longer allowed.
Speaker 1: I get home to find he's left me in a
Speaker 1: ki bowl in the fridge. With a sticky note for
Speaker 1: my favorite designer, sorry for the long week. For a second,
Speaker 1: I soften. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe he's just overwhelmed. Maybe
Speaker 1: I'm inventing things to be afraid of. But there's a
Speaker 1: reply from Jay on his slack. You make this shit work.
Speaker 1: We're lucky to have you dinner. It's time stamped one
Speaker 1: zero three a m. I sleep badly, arguing with myself silently,
Speaker 1: as if two versions of me, past and present are
Speaker 1: at war over the truth. A turning point comes on
Speaker 1: a random Wednesday. Adam walks in at eleven thirty, hair
Speaker 1: damp from the storm, laptop bag slung haphazardly, he heads
Speaker 1: straight for the shower without a word. I gather his
Speaker 1: mail and notice a postcard stuck in one of the letters.
Speaker 1: Artsy but obscured. A quick scrawl. Couldn't have pulled off
Speaker 1: the event without you. Next time, it's just us two Jay. Later,
Speaker 1: Adam catches me sorting the stack. That's from a donor.
Speaker 1: Not a big deal, he says, too quickly. I want
Speaker 1: to believe him so much that the ache is physical.
Speaker 1: Another week and I've memorized the pattern cups in the sink,
Speaker 1: the faint cologne on his shirt, playlists that stay unchanged,
Speaker 1: the doors closed, the muttered phone calls on the patio,
Speaker 1: the way he tenses if I step into his work time. Finally,
Speaker 1: I decide to confront him fully, no hedging, no games.
Speaker 1: Adam is tired. He slouched on the couch, scrolling slack,
Speaker 1: a plate of cold Natchos at his side. I pause
Speaker 1: the t V, settling in next to him, my knee
Speaker 1: pressed to his look. I have to ask, are we
Speaker 1: still in this? Because it feels like you're already gone
Speaker 1: most days. My voice trembles, but I hold his eye.
Speaker 1: He rubs his face, sighs. I don't know. I'm just
Speaker 1: burnt out. I guess it's not you, Meyer, I swear.
Speaker 1: He looks out at the neon streaked window. You have
Speaker 1: everything together with street Link. I actually feel needed. People
Speaker 1: rely on me there. I can make a real impact.
Speaker 1: I soften, touching his hand. Do you need more space?
Speaker 1: Is this about Jess? Adam's shoulders sag Jess is she's
Speaker 1: a genius coder. We work well. Yeah, we grab coffee sometimes,
Speaker 1: but it's just work. If it makes you uncomfortable, I
Speaker 1: can dial it back. I don't want to lose us. Okay,
Speaker 1: He teeters between resignation and affection for a second, I
Speaker 1: believe him. He suggests a week nd away, promises to
Speaker 1: block time on the calendar, even gifts me a new
Speaker 1: playlist on Spotify labeled M plus a road trip. For
Speaker 1: those two days, we laugh at songs, eat too much food,
Speaker 1: and rediscover the version of us we never thought would fade.
Speaker 1: Our intimacy, physical and emotional returns at least a little.
Speaker 1: I laugh, easier, sleep better, feel the knot inside loosen.
Speaker 1: When we get home, Adam throws himself back into street link,
Speaker 1: but he's less defensive, more considerate. For a few days,
Speaker 1: I convince myself that it was just a rough patch
Speaker 1: and may be nothing more. Until the following Tuesday. As
Speaker 1: I'm swapping laundry, Adam's phone lights up. Most of his
Speaker 1: notifications are muted, but I catch a WhatsApp pop miss you.
Speaker 1: Already can't stop thinking about last night, Jes. I stand there, numb,
Speaker 1: holding a pair of Adam's socks, and able to move
Speaker 1: or exhale for a solid minute. The message stays on
Speaker 1: the screen, taunting me with its easy intimacy. It's certainty
Speaker 1: that he'll see it. And smile. It's as if the
Speaker 1: months of doubts collapse into a perfect circle. I want
Speaker 1: to confront him, immediately, demand the truth, but something in
Speaker 1: me hesitates. I need to know everything before smashing what's
Speaker 1: left of us. Adam walks out, humming towel around his neck,
Speaker 1: and for a moment I watch him, bewildered by the
Speaker 1: sight of this man I thought I understood that night.
Speaker 1: I wait for him to fall asleep, then open his laptop. Paranoid, Yes,
Speaker 1: but I need proof that my mind hasn't snapped. The
Speaker 1: browser history is oddly clean, loggins all fresh, but I
Speaker 1: do see a shared Google Drive folder with Jess, files
Speaker 1: that Adam never shared with me, pitch decks, event photos,
Speaker 1: even a few late night voice memos, their time stamps
Speaker 1: matching the cash withdrawals and secret rides. I don't sleep,
Speaker 1: too angry to cry, too tired to scream. Instead, I
Speaker 1: write three pages of questions in my notes app and
Speaker 1: decide the only way forward is clarity. I'll see Jess,
Speaker 1: I'll see Adam. I'll see the two of them together
Speaker 1: if I must. Priya calls in the morning. She's heard
Speaker 1: from an ex colleague that Adam espen venting about relationship drama.
Speaker 1: Priya wonders what's going on. I deflect, barely able to
Speaker 1: keep my voice steady. My next move feels reckless. I
Speaker 1: show up at Streetlink again later, this time hoping to
Speaker 1: see the truth behind Adam's public mask. Jess is there,
Speaker 1: fiddling with a Raspberry pie, headphones on, typing furiously. Adam's
Speaker 1: not in sight. I try to say hello, but she
Speaker 1: looks straight through me. There's a wall there, invisible but unmistakable.
Speaker 1: Another volunteer, Terry, awkwardly offers me coffee, then retreats. Adam
Speaker 1: comes out to greet me, casual but surprised. Didn't expect
Speaker 1: you here need anything. His voice is cool, edged with warner.
Speaker 1: I wanted to see you in action. I say, meet people,
Speaker 1: actually be a part of your world again. He runs
Speaker 1: a hand through his hair. We're in crunch mode, Babe,
Speaker 1: Can we just not today? The rejection is worse than
Speaker 1: any fight. It's the slow closing of a door I
Speaker 1: didn't even realize was swinging shut. I thanked Terry for
Speaker 1: the coffee and leave heart pounding, brain racing through every
Speaker 1: minute of the last six months. Jess never looks up again,
Speaker 1: not once in half an hour. At home, Adams moved
Speaker 1: my art projects from the living room table to a
Speaker 1: corner sighting space for video calls. He apologizes, but doesn't
Speaker 1: offer to help me reset. I find I can't focus
Speaker 1: on work, reopening old pictures of the two of us
Speaker 1: smiling in the sun, his hand easily found on my waist.
Speaker 1: I start quietly tracking Adam's movements, watching the times he
Speaker 1: leaves the eubers, the way he changes shirts after coming
Speaker 1: home late, always saying it's just sweat from the shelter
Speaker 1: when he asks if I'm okay, I nod mechanical. We
Speaker 1: sleep badly, both of us shifting restlessly, a cold no
Speaker 1: man's land between our bodies that used to fit like
Speaker 1: puzzle pieces. Each day brings more evidence, another layer of
Speaker 1: things not said, of faces turned away, of stories that
Speaker 1: don't quite fit. And every night, in the silence, the
Speaker 1: noise of secrets screams louder. It's the middle of another
Speaker 1: night when the silence between us becomes unbearable. I watch insomnia,
Speaker 1: blurring the ceiling into spinning shadows as Adams sleeps on
Speaker 1: his side, mouth slack, a crease deepening between his brows,
Speaker 1: His phone blips muffled by the pillow. He doesn't stir.
Speaker 1: I prop myself up on my elbows and stare at
Speaker 1: his outline, the familiar curve of his shoulders made unfamiliar
Speaker 1: by the secrecy slinking out of him like sweat. By morning,
Speaker 1: we maneuver our routines as if on parallel monareils. I
Speaker 1: cook eggs and toast, setting out his mug with cream
Speaker 1: the way he likes. He swoops in, thanks me with
Speaker 1: a peck on the forehead, and breezes through a zigzag
Speaker 1: of slack notifications before vanishing into the home office. His
Speaker 1: day is a carousel of calls and teams sinks. Mine
Speaker 1: is a collage of mock ups and polite client feedback,
Speaker 1: the dull ache behind my eyes deepening each time. His laughter,
Speaker 1: faint and private, floats through the closed office door. That evening,
Speaker 1: after a long client review, I try to reach for
Speaker 1: our old normal again. I step into the office, hoping
Speaker 1: to lure him toward a spontaneous dinner date or a
Speaker 1: wine and board game night, but find him engrossed on
Speaker 1: a video call Jess's name squarely at the top of
Speaker 1: the window, laughing at something. Just before Adam catches sight
Speaker 1: of me. He startles quickly clicks to another tab. Babe,
Speaker 1: can we catch up in a minute. I'm debugging with
Speaker 1: Jess and the API is going haywire? You know how
Speaker 1: it is? I nod, pretending nonchalance, even as something inside
Speaker 1: me reels at how naturally His hand hovers over the trackpad,
Speaker 1: ready to close what I can't see. Later, over sushi delivery,
Speaker 1: I cautiously fish for an opening. I saw the new
Speaker 1: street link updates. They look great. That GPS tracking for
Speaker 1: resources is genius. Digest do the map integration? He doesn't
Speaker 1: look up from his phone. Mostly, Yeah, she's brilliant with Python. Honestly,
Speaker 1: couldn't have hit the deadline without her. Hey, is this
Speaker 1: the place that had the pork belly Tacco's last time?
Speaker 1: The answer is simple enough, but the pivot is rapid fire,
Speaker 1: a practiced dance of redirection. I watch the outline of
Speaker 1: his knuckles tense as they scroll across his screen. For
Speaker 1: a while, we eat in silence, the clink of chopsticks
Speaker 1: louder than the city traffic outside the week end brings
Speaker 1: more distance. Adam needs the space for street links, all hands.
Speaker 1: He says, it's a lockdown at the office, no partners
Speaker 1: or guests. I consider pressing. I want to offer to
Speaker 1: bring burritos again, but the last time I tried he
Speaker 1: flatly refused. Instead, I find myself wandering South Congress, phone
Speaker 1: poised for a just in the neighborhood check in that
Speaker 1: I never send. Half way through an aimless stroll, I
Speaker 1: duck into a coffee shop that once hosted our impromptu hackathons.
Speaker 1: The back wall is plastered with old group selfies me Adam,
Speaker 1: a cast of coders and designers, big grins and goofball faces,
Speaker 1: arms slung around each other in the sweaty, sleep deprived
Speaker 1: solidarity of communal achievement. I trace one photo with my thumb,
Speaker 1: remembering Adam's insistence that our people are always welcome at
Speaker 1: any table. Once we would have invited every one out.
Speaker 1: Now I can't get Adam to name half the people
Speaker 1: he spends his nights with. Outside the shop, rain threatens
Speaker 1: in sullen clouds. I call Prior, feigning a need for
Speaker 1: a brunch date. Unwilling to unload the full weight of
Speaker 1: my suspicions, but desperate for the comfort of a voice
Speaker 1: that has known us both for years. She hears an
Speaker 1: edge in my tone and doesn't bother with preamble. He's
Speaker 1: still acting squerily, she asks, voice slightly distorted by wind
Speaker 1: on her end. I don't know he's tired. That's all overworked.
Speaker 1: If you say so, Pria says, with that disbelieving gentleness
Speaker 1: that makes me WinCE. Just be careful not to disappear
Speaker 1: into some one else's narrative. You need your version of
Speaker 1: things too. Her words settle uneasily into my chest as
Speaker 1: I walk home, wishing for the first time in years
Speaker 1: that I didn't know Adam quite so well, that I
Speaker 1: wouldn't instantly spot every hesitation, every crack in his explanations.
Speaker 1: Back at the condo, Adam is out a calendar entry
Speaker 1: marked volunteer checkin, lasting until midnight. I sit at my
Speaker 1: desk and, after too much struggle against my own conscience,
Speaker 1: open our shared budgeting app. I'm not proud of it,
Speaker 1: but practicality overrides principle. I enter our bank log in
Speaker 1: information and study the recent transactions. There are the usual groceries,
Speaker 1: shared lift rides, happy hour tabs on rainy Tuesdays, mixed
Speaker 1: in a trail of newer stranger entries, cash with drawn
Speaker 1: up North Loop quick Bite. At one fifty three a m.
Speaker 1: A string of lift rides criss crossing east from South
Speaker 1: Congress to the shelter address, then on to an unfamiliar
Speaker 1: house on Manor Road, then again to an address attached
Speaker 1: to a bar called the Turtle. It isn't the money
Speaker 1: that bothers me. It's the pattern, the effort involved in
Speaker 1: masking it. Never the same route twice, each transaction, just
Speaker 1: small enough to blend in each block on the calendar,
Speaker 1: just vague enough that I hesitate to call it a lie.
Speaker 1: I jot down the names and addresses in my note book,
Speaker 1: unsure what to even do with them. The power dynas
Speaker 1: has shifted. I no longer know whether I am a
Speaker 1: partner or a detective, and the thought leaves a pit
Speaker 1: in my stomach. The next day, Adam is almost manic
Speaker 1: with energy when he finally comes home, talking up a
Speaker 1: storm about possible expansion grants and partnerships with other Austin nonprofits.
Speaker 1: I watch him pace, observe how his enthusiasm feels performative,
Speaker 1: a kind of monologue meant as much to convince himself
Speaker 1: as to bring me up to speed. When I offer
Speaker 1: to review his new pitch deck. I can spot last
Speaker 1: minute typos, at least, he waves me off. I promise
Speaker 1: the team I'd keep some of the drafts internal. The
Speaker 1: board is big on confidentiality, he says, not quite meeting
Speaker 1: my eyes. Adam has never cared about confidentiality before, not
Speaker 1: when it came to me. I remember tracing his earliest
Speaker 1: wire frames on the backs of napkins, testing his MVPs
Speaker 1: over takeout and beer, knowing every bug and fix as
Speaker 1: they happened. Now I'm relegated to state it updates just
Speaker 1: enough information to appear generous, none of the specifics that
Speaker 1: might allow real insight. The following week, another trivia night
Speaker 1: comes and goes without Adam. I show up with Leelah
Speaker 1: and a ragtag mix of music friends. Every One asks
Speaker 1: after him with varying degrees of interest and snark. He
Speaker 1: gone and gotten famous, jokes one of the regulars. I
Speaker 1: think he's just chained to the social justice grindstone. Leela
Speaker 1: replies for me, shooting me a sideways glance, as if
Speaker 1: gaging whether she's gone too far. I laugh it off,
Speaker 1: grateful for the distraction, but the absence settles on me
Speaker 1: like a headache. The trivia host, an affable guy named Jonah,
Speaker 1: whispers during a lull, we haven't seen you two together
Speaker 1: in ages, misseeing you take home mugs. I promise vaguely
Speaker 1: that we'll be back soon, though the lie tastes bitter.
Speaker 1: On my way home, I drive past the Turtle's glowing
Speaker 1: green sign, curiosity burning. It's early enough that the bar
Speaker 1: is quiet, a couple of night owls hunched over laptops
Speaker 1: and whisky. I find a seat at the end, ordering
Speaker 1: Seltzer just to have a reason to sit, head down,
Speaker 1: phone out. The bartender looks familiar, maybe he's worked a
Speaker 1: festival or two with us before. When he asks if
Speaker 1: I want to start a tab, I blurt, do you
Speaker 1: know Adam, tall, curly hair tech shirts comes by sometimes.
Speaker 1: The bartender cocks his head. Adam, Oh, sure, he's in
Speaker 1: here a lot lately. Usually comes in with a group
Speaker 1: from across the street. That girl Jess. I think they're
Speaker 1: working on some ap right, I nod, trying to keep
Speaker 1: my expression neutral. YEA, that's him. Thanks. He paus my seltzer,
Speaker 1: never giving it another thought. But that's enough confirmation from
Speaker 1: a stranger, too simple and off hand not to be true.
Speaker 1: I leave with a ball of anxious energy simmering in
Speaker 1: my stomach. At home, Adam is out again. The condo
Speaker 1: feels even smaller, the silence more oppressive. That week end,
Speaker 1: street Link hosts a block party fundraiser proudly promoted on
Speaker 1: their website. This time, I don't tell Adam I'm coming.
Speaker 1: I just show up, camera in hand, hoping to capture
Speaker 1: a candid shot or two, and blend in. The event
Speaker 1: is bustling with volunteers and clients, food tents and bands,
Speaker 1: local press snapping pictures. I spot Adam quickly working the
Speaker 1: crowd in his Streetlink hoodie, gesturing animatedly as he coordinates
Speaker 1: deliveries and shakes hands with city wraps. He looks happy, relaxed,
Speaker 1: alive in a way I haven't seen in months. Not
Speaker 1: far away, Jess stands behind a laptop at the donation table,
Speaker 1: hair down for once, a constellation of rings dotting her
Speaker 1: fingers as she collects signatures for a petition. I approach,
Speaker 1: pretending not to see Adam at first. Jess gives me
Speaker 1: a curt professional smile. Can I help you with something?
Speaker 1: I shake my head, trying to sound casual. Just thought
Speaker 1: i'd see the famous street link in action. I'm Meyer,
Speaker 1: Adam's partner. Her smile thins a little right, I've heard
Speaker 1: about you. We sit in an awkward silence. She doesn't
Speaker 1: offer more. Across the lawn, Adam notices me at last.
Speaker 1: His expression flickers delight, surprise, then guarded concern, as if
Speaker 1: I've broken some unwritten protocol. He moves to join us,
Speaker 1: voice pitched just a bit too loudly. Hey, I didn't
Speaker 1: know you were coming. This is great. Jess Meyer works
Speaker 1: at UEX Frame. She's the designer I was talking about
Speaker 1: for our original pilot. Jess doesn't take the bait. She
Speaker 1: answers without looking directly at either of us. Oh cool,
Speaker 1: hope you're enjoying the party. Adam tries to force a bridge.
Speaker 1: We should all grab a drink after this, celebrate a
Speaker 1: good haul. Jess glances away, phone pressed to her ear,
Speaker 1: murmurs I'll catch up with you later, and disappears into
Speaker 1: the tent. It's just Adam and me. He fidgets with
Speaker 1: a stack of fliers. Sorry, she's swamped running logistics. Maybe
Speaker 1: we can hang after I break down, Give me an hour, okay.
Speaker 1: Something in his eyes pleads with me to accept this
Speaker 1: little deferral, this temporary piece. I take a step back
Speaker 1: and force myself to watch the rest of the party,
Speaker 1: but I keep one eye on Adam and Jess as
Speaker 1: they move through the crowd, orbiting each other expertly, never
Speaker 1: crossing the line into the obviously inappropriate, but never more
Speaker 1: than a few yards apart. Leaving the event, my hands
Speaker 1: tremble so badly I nearly drop my phone. I glance
Speaker 1: over the event photos online that night, seeing Adam and
Speaker 1: Jess together over and over, close enough for friendship, far
Speaker 1: enough that only the suspicious would call it out. I
Speaker 1: don't sleep that night. Instead, I replay it in my head,
Speaker 1: scoring every small moment for hidden meaning. Was Jess I
Speaker 1: because she feels threatened, or because Adam told her I shouldn't?
Speaker 1: No more? Did Adam's nervous greeting mean guilt or simply awkwardness?
Speaker 1: At mixing worlds I'd always kept apart myself is my
Speaker 1: own anxiety, making me rewrite history in real time. On Monday,
Speaker 1: I run into Terry, one of the more senior Street
Speaker 1: Link volunteers, at a down town food truck lunch. He
Speaker 1: recognizes me and grins sheepishly pulling me aside, even as
Speaker 1: I'm balancing a ban my and bag of chips. Hey
Speaker 1: my right, Adam's partner. Yeah, you guys looked slammed at
Speaker 1: the fundraiser. Great turnout, Terry shrugs. Adam's are force just
Speaker 1: too man, She's a lot Sometimes I feel like the
Speaker 1: rest of us are just keeping up. I focus on
Speaker 1: my drink. Seems like they're a good team. Do they
Speaker 1: hang out much after hours? Adam's always working lately. Something
Speaker 1: flickers in Terry's expression, quickly masked. Yeah, theirs. You know
Speaker 1: all nighters hack sessions. It's a start up nonprofit. Everyone
Speaker 1: gets obsessed. He changes the subject, So are you joining
Speaker 1: the trivia team again? Soon after we part, I write
Speaker 1: his words down. Everyone gets obsessed? Is that true? Or
Speaker 1: is he feeding me? Street links accepted narrative. The following day,
Speaker 1: Adam is home for dinner. For once, we sit on
Speaker 1: the balcony in the still water heat. I muster my courage.
Speaker 1: I ran into Terry. He mentioned you and Jess pulling
Speaker 1: all nighters a lot even outside the office. Are you okay?
Speaker 1: Is this just about the work or Adam stiffens it's
Speaker 1: just work? She needs help, She doesn't have much of
Speaker 1: a support system. You're reading into it. I try to
Speaker 1: make my voice soft. I want to understand, Adam. I
Speaker 1: want to be there for you, but lately you're never
Speaker 1: really here. He flinches, becomes defensive. You haven't asked about
Speaker 1: the project, really, not like before. It's different now. If
Speaker 1: your job asked you to be all in, would I complain?
Speaker 1: I'm not trying to control you. I just I trail
Speaker 1: off and am sure how not to sound like the
Speaker 1: suspicious partner I feel myself becoming. Adam sighs, running his
Speaker 1: hands through messy curls meier, please trust me. Jess is
Speaker 1: just a friend. We work well together. Sometimes I wish
Speaker 1: you'd try harder to see it from my side. The
Speaker 1: conversation goes nowhere, but it changes things. He leaves for
Speaker 1: another late shift, not long after, refusing my offer to
Speaker 1: walk him out or to meet him after he's done.
Speaker 1: At this point, nothing feels certain except my own confusion.
Speaker 1: Days blend into one another. Each morning, the mounting dread
Speaker 1: in my stomach grows heavier. Adam is tired, or says
Speaker 1: he is. Even when we share a bed, his mind
Speaker 1: is elsewhere. Our intimacy dwindles not through argument, but through
Speaker 1: the subtle, every day erosion of a tension, averted eyes,
Speaker 1: overslept alarms, brushed off invitations. I start to second guess myself,
Speaker 1: replaying every moment, every glance. Am my manufacturing clues seeing
Speaker 1: malice in the mundane? Or am I finally inexorably seeing
Speaker 1: the truth. Small oddities accumulate. Adam's work shirts begin to
Speaker 1: smell faintly of perfume that isn't mine, a floral note
Speaker 1: masked by deodorant. He misses his sister's birthday call, something
Speaker 1: unthinkable for him. When I joke about it, he bristles,
Speaker 1: says not everyone's glued to their family. Twenty four seven,
Speaker 1: at Trivia, Leela mentions she saw Jess at a downtown
Speaker 1: speakeasy on a Wednesday, with a date, maybe or just
Speaker 1: having a drink. I ask if Adam was there, but
Speaker 1: she shrugs didn't see him, but I ducked out early.
Speaker 1: I fantasize about cornering Jess, pressing her for details. I
Speaker 1: want to know if Adam's reality matches the story he tells,
Speaker 1: but something holds me back, a blend of pride and fear. Instead,
Speaker 1: I trailed digital footprints. The street Link slack Adam invited
Speaker 1: me to Ian's ago is now full of locked channels.
Speaker 1: I check public event calendars for clues mapping Adam's comings
Speaker 1: and goings against city records, street link pop ups, grant meetings,
Speaker 1: coalition panels. His name appears in the credits for several
Speaker 1: high profil projects, but Jesses is always there too. I
Speaker 1: invite Adam to join me and my team for an
Speaker 1: escape room night. He begs off with another vague crunch excuse,
Speaker 1: you should go have fun later. I see an Instagram
Speaker 1: story tagged at an outdoor food truck court. Jess and
Speaker 1: Adam blurry in the background, bent over laptop, laughing into
Speaker 1: the wind. It's posted by some one else, a mutual
Speaker 1: street Link volunteer, and vanishes in twenty four hours. I
Speaker 1: screenshot it. By now I've screenshot everything, the suspicion becomes
Speaker 1: a muscle memory. I no longer need proof, I need
Speaker 1: closure or clarity, anything to end the limbo. Late on
Speaker 1: a Friday night, after Adam has gone to bed and
Speaker 1: I'm left in the half light of my laptop screen,
Speaker 1: the statistics tell their silent story. His slack status reads
Speaker 1: active at two a m the shared Google drive pings
Speaker 1: live edits at three eleven. The mute on notifications is
Speaker 1: as telling as a siren. None of it is yet conclusive.
Speaker 1: Nothing you could show a jury, but all of it
Speaker 1: feels too neat, too orchestrated. The next morning, I find
Speaker 1: a crumpled receipt in Adam's jacket pocket, a brunch for
Speaker 1: two at a bestro down by the river front. We
Speaker 1: never eat there. It's too expensive, too stylized, the kind
Speaker 1: of place you go to impress. The date printed on
Speaker 1: it matches. A Saturday, Adam claimed to be at a
Speaker 1: street link team in stall, crashed on a friend's couch
Speaker 1: to save time. My throat tightens. That afternoon, Adam gets
Speaker 1: a call and steps on to the patio from the kitchen.
Speaker 1: I hear the cadence of familiar code jargon API and
Speaker 1: points o uth project forks, but threaded through with laughter
Speaker 1: inside jokes, I no longer share. He ends the call,
Speaker 1: returns to the living room, finds me folding laundry. He
Speaker 1: offers up a tentative smile, voice overly gentle, I'm grabbing
Speaker 1: dinner with the team. Okay, don't wait up. I wait
Speaker 1: until he's left and then, feeling a wave of shame
Speaker 1: and panic, try a final digital incursion. His laptop for
Speaker 1: once is unlocked. I scan the recent files, meeting notes,
Speaker 1: project outlines. Then one folder stands out donor Event Private
Speaker 1: inside a series of photos, Adam arms slung around Jesse's shoulders.
Speaker 1: Both of them mid laugh, toasting with glasses of wine,
Speaker 1: their faces close, radiant. There are other volunteers in the background,
Speaker 1: but the intimacy freezes me. I snap the laptop shut,
Speaker 1: bile rising in my throat for the first time, I
Speaker 1: stop rationalizing. I know, I know, I'm not imagining this.
Speaker 1: I call Priyer and, in a choked whisper, finally say
Speaker 1: I think he's cheating. I don't know what else to
Speaker 1: call it. The words hang there, stark and final. Priyer
Speaker 1: is silent for a long moment, then says, come over,
Speaker 1: I've got ice cream and nobody's going to make you
Speaker 1: explain anything until you want to. Before I leave, Adam texts,
Speaker 1: big meeting went well, going for drinks. Don't wait up,
Speaker 1: Love you Roman twenty. I stare at the screen, cold inside.
Speaker 1: I don't reply. That night, over Priya's kitchen counter, I
Speaker 1: spill the details the phone, the receipts the change in routine,
Speaker 1: all of it, and she listens, face tight with anger
Speaker 1: and empathy. You need to know, she finally says, not
Speaker 1: just suspect she's right. The next step isn't watching from
Speaker 1: a distance, gathering circumstantial evidence, or doubting myself. The next
Speaker 1: step is confrontation. But I'm not ready, not yet. Sunday,
Speaker 1: I wake before dawn. Adam is back, asleep on the couch,
Speaker 1: fully clothed, shoes half off, face turned to the wall.
Speaker 1: I can smell alcohol, but faint, like a memory. He stirs,
Speaker 1: eyes bleary. Sorry, didn't mean to crash out here, you
Speaker 1: are already asleep. I nod, voice neutral, rough night, He shrugs,
Speaker 1: team's stuff. We're getting close to launch. No detail, not
Speaker 1: even a fake one. I want to scream, to shake
Speaker 1: him awake, but I say nothing. Instead, I shower, dress
Speaker 1: and walk out to brunch on my own, head, ringing
Speaker 1: with the certainty that my life is about to split apart.
Speaker 1: That afternoon, as the humid ostin sun beats down, I
Speaker 1: buy a single ticket for another open mic night, tucking
Speaker 1: myself into the crowd. Adam and I once considered our
Speaker 1: extended family. I watch the performers clutching a lukewarm Gin
Speaker 1: and tonic and feel the empty chair as a wound.
Speaker 1: On stage, the MC tells a story about heartbreak and reinvention.
Speaker 1: I wonder, not for the first time, what reinvention actually
Speaker 1: looks like. Does it mean starting over or does it
Speaker 1: mean reclaiming what's left after something essential is gone? Back home,
Speaker 1: Adam is packing for another overnight at Streetlink. I make
Speaker 1: myself ask do you want me to come by? Bring snacks,
Speaker 1: maybe hang out with the team. He gives a tight,
Speaker 1: patronizing smile, not to night. We'll probably be heads down
Speaker 1: until sunrise. I nod, but in my heart something clicks shut.
Speaker 1: As he leaves. I watch him from the window. He
Speaker 1: doesn't look back, not even once. I head to the bedroom,
Speaker 1: close the door softly, and sit on our bed, surrounded
Speaker 1: by the debris of our shared history, concert wristbands, old polaroids,
Speaker 1: the faded festival hat Adam always stole from me. I
Speaker 1: tell myself, I'm strong enough to face whatever comes next.
Speaker 1: I even almost believe it. I stay sitting on the
Speaker 1: bed as the sound of Adam's footsteps fades down the
Speaker 1: hall outside our condo. One careful stride, a mechanical clang
Speaker 1: of the stairwell, the click as the main door locks.
Speaker 1: My shoulders are rigid, My breathing loud in the hush
Speaker 1: around me. It's early evening but already dusky, the room
Speaker 1: painted orange by the low sun. Bands of color slant
Speaker 1: across the wall of gig posters, pooling over Adam's pillow
Speaker 1: like faded confetti. My legs ache with wanting to run
Speaker 1: or move, or do anything to interrupt the quiet that's
Speaker 1: louder than any fight. I try to picture how we began,
Speaker 1: and all I get is static. Every object in our
Speaker 1: space looks misplaced. The shoes at skewed angles, the old
Speaker 1: music festival lanyard with both of our names on a
Speaker 1: hook by the closet, the beat up speaker Adam bought
Speaker 1: when he got his first bonus. I remember now with
Speaker 1: a cold clarity, how we once argued for hours about
Speaker 1: staf acking records by genre or mood, about whether it
Speaker 1: was worth breaking up a set just because a new
Speaker 1: artist didn't fit the old order. And it hits me
Speaker 1: somewhere along the way we stopped sorting things together. Now,
Speaker 1: the records, the stories, even the truth all feels scrambled.
Speaker 1: The next morning, Adam's presence is just a dent on
Speaker 1: his side of the mattress, ghosted by the shape of
Speaker 1: his sleep. Usually, when he comes in late, he tries
Speaker 1: to slip in, presses up behind me, as if proximity
Speaker 1: erases the missing hours. Last night, he never came back.
Speaker 1: My phone buzzes a calendar alert for a street link
Speaker 1: channel stand up, but it's not for me. There's no
Speaker 1: message from Adam, not even the usual transactional good morning.
Speaker 1: I wait, rehearsing conversations in my head, trying to decide
Speaker 1: what to do with the riot of feelings that won't
Speaker 1: narrow to a single plan. I pour coffee and stare
Speaker 1: into the sink full of crusty dishes. Adam's favorite mug
Speaker 1: is gone, probably in his back pack. Breakfast feels pointless,
Speaker 1: so I pour mine out and run the tap until
Speaker 1: the sound drowns out my pulse. Some part of me
Speaker 1: expects him to text, to check in, to offer some explanation,
Speaker 1: anything that draws a real line instead of endless ellipses. Instead,
Speaker 1: my screen stays blank. I message Priya, tell her I
Speaker 1: need air. She offers her couch for the night. I
Speaker 1: imagine myself packing a bag, but some sticky hope keeps
Speaker 1: me rooted. Maybe Adam will walk back through the door,
Speaker 1: shoulders dripping with apology. The weight of secrets finally set down,
Speaker 1: but as the day passes, he doesn't return. I clean
Speaker 1: in a daze, wiping counters, rearranging blankets, resetting what little
Speaker 1: I still control. I find one of Adam's shirts in
Speaker 1: the hamper and fold it without thinking. At lunch, my
Speaker 1: appetite flickers and dies. The condo feels smaller with every
Speaker 1: passing hour, a terrarium, humid and airless, thick with expectation.
Speaker 1: By mid afternoon, anxious energy drives me out. I get
Speaker 1: in my car, and, without giving myself time to second guess,
Speaker 1: head east across the river, passing over streets we used
Speaker 1: to walk together towards street Link's makeshift hub. I park
Speaker 1: around the corner unnoticed, heart pounding as I watch the
Speaker 1: comings and goings of volunteers and clients. The main entrance
Speaker 1: is propped open for a delivery. I slip inside, pretending confidence,
Speaker 1: and scan for Adam. The air smells sharp, industrial cleaner
Speaker 1: and stale coffee. Jess is there, perched at the end
Speaker 1: of a rickety desk, arguing quietly with a man I
Speaker 1: don't recognize. She catches sight of me, and her eyes sharpen,
Speaker 1: calculation flickering across her face. I approach, forcing my voice steady.
Speaker 1: Is Adam around? She glances back at her phone, then
Speaker 1: at me, tone clipped. He's prepping some outreach stuff. You
Speaker 1: need something. There's a hush to the room, a few
Speaker 1: glances from other volunteers, a simmering under the ordinary. I
Speaker 1: hold her eyes, unwilling to blink first, I try one
Speaker 1: last time for civility, just checking in. I've been worried.
Speaker 1: She shrugs, her voice devoid of warmth. Everything's fine here.
Speaker 1: You should ask Adam, not me, And then a flick
Speaker 1: of her mouth. I never promised exclusivity to anyone. The
Speaker 1: words burrow deep, not defensive, not cruel, just flat, as
Speaker 1: if she's already moved on from whatever this mess is.
Speaker 1: I'm trembling as I leave, gripping my keys so tightly.
Speaker 1: The edge is cut, the sun is blinding, the engine
Speaker 1: too loud in the small parking lot. Every instinct screams
Speaker 1: out for confrontation. But I want need Adam to explain
Speaker 1: himself in his own words, not in shadows and half
Speaker 1: truths borrowed from Jess. The fear, the humiliation, the anticipation.
Speaker 1: They're all a clamor under my skin, a pressure I
Speaker 1: can't discharge. That night, Adam comes home late. I hear
Speaker 1: his keys clatter against the hallway table, his familiar exhale
Speaker 1: through the front door. I'm waiting for him in the
Speaker 1: living room. The only light is the glow from the
Speaker 1: street outside, pooling over the coffee table, littered with our
Speaker 1: shared detritus, two mugs, old male, a torn concert flier.
Speaker 1: He stands in the doorway, backpacks sliding off one shoulder,
Speaker 1: eyes circled with exhaustion. There's an alertness to him, a readiness,
Speaker 1: as if he knows there's no more detouring around what
Speaker 1: I know. Before he can say anything, I speak. We
Speaker 1: need to talk now, no more vague answers. He drops
Speaker 1: the bag, rubs his hands over his face. O K.
Speaker 1: I figured this was coming. His tone is flat, maybe
Speaker 1: even resigned, exhaustion, battling some smaller, meaner corner of dread.
Speaker 1: My voice hitches, but I push ahead. Jess. The late nights,
Speaker 1: the messages, the receipts, the way you keep me out.
Speaker 1: I deserve the truth, Adam, not spin not careful edits
Speaker 1: Is there something going on between you and Jess? Really?
Speaker 1: He doesn't answer right away. For a minute, time drags
Speaker 1: the refrigerator, hum his breathing, the stutter in the street
Speaker 1: light outside. Then with a sigh, he sits awkwardly at
Speaker 1: the far edge of the couch, head in his hands.
Speaker 1: Yes there's something, he looks up, cheeks blotched with shame, anger,
Speaker 1: something like helplessness. I didn't plan for it to happen.
Speaker 1: I just felt alive again. We worked late, and one
Speaker 1: thing turned into another. At first it was just cod
Speaker 1: and coffee, then more. His eyes flick away from mine,
Speaker 1: unable to stand the sight of what he's done. I
Speaker 1: feel the floor tilt beneath me. I press harder. Did
Speaker 1: you sleep with her? He nods once, Yeah, a few times,
Speaker 1: not at first, but yeah. There's a howl in my chest,
Speaker 1: a vacuum where all the justifications used to live, my composure,
Speaker 1: barely fighting the urge to throw something or dissolve entirely,
Speaker 1: he continues defensive. Now, it wasn't because I wanted to
Speaker 1: hurt you. I needed to feel needed you. You have
Speaker 1: your work, your friends, your life. At street Link, people
Speaker 1: rely on me. Jess looks at me like nothing's impossible.
Speaker 1: Hot tears prick my eyes, but I hold them back.
Speaker 1: So it's my fault. Adam shakes his head weary. No,
Speaker 1: I mean not just yours or mine or hers. It's
Speaker 1: everything I wanted, more than I had, and I I
Speaker 1: couldn't stop. I lashed back, voice trembling. You were the
Speaker 1: ones shutting me out, keeping everything separate. You said you
Speaker 1: wanted us, wanted our friends to blend, and then you
Speaker 1: made this world I was never allowed into. All these months,
Speaker 1: you chose to close that door. He doesn't deny it,
Speaker 1: shoulders caving inward. I know, I know I screwed up.
Speaker 1: I lied. I told myself I could manage both, keep
Speaker 1: street Link, keep Jess at arm's length. I'm sorry. Silence
Speaker 1: hitches in the air between us, drawn thin as wire. Finally,
Speaker 1: I stare at the heart of it, voice small, Do
Speaker 1: you love her? He stares at the ground, wiping a
Speaker 1: hand over his jaw. I don't know what I feel.
Speaker 1: Maybe I do. Maybe I just needed some place to
Speaker 1: escape the way we were stuck. I bite back a cry,
Speaker 1: my hands pressed to my knees. So tightly my knuckles ache.
Speaker 1: So what do you want? He shakes his head miserably.
Speaker 1: I don't know. Part of me wants to stay, try
Speaker 1: to fix this. Part of me is so tired of
Speaker 1: the lies, of hurting you, of choosing. I didn't think
Speaker 1: it would get here. My anger spikes, but my voice
Speaker 1: is cold final. You don't get to hedge now, Adam.
Speaker 1: You can't have both. You can't walk back into my
Speaker 1: life pretending you didn't burn what we made together. He stands,
Speaker 1: paces the room, runs his hands through his hair, spinning
Speaker 1: out apologies, half formed sentences, shame and pleading. The air
Speaker 1: thickens with competing emotions, anger, sorrow, even something like pity.
Speaker 1: But beneath all of it is a chasm, one that's
Speaker 1: wider than anything we can ever cross. I stare at him,
Speaker 1: searching for a flicker of the person I thought I knew,
Speaker 1: But all I see is fatigue and regret and a
Speaker 1: mess that can't be undone with a single moment of honesty.
Speaker 1: My voice is quieter. Now. I need you to leave.
Speaker 1: I need space, real space, to decide what comes next.
Speaker 1: This time, Adam doesn't fight. He gathers a few things,
Speaker 1: a duffel, his laptop charger, a fistful of shirts stuffed
Speaker 1: with wild, anxious energy. But he moves like he knows
Speaker 1: there's no comeback built into this story. We move through
Speaker 1: the rooms stiffly, two strangers picking around the remains of
Speaker 1: something shattered and sharp. By the time he stands at
Speaker 1: the door, the look in his eyes is something I
Speaker 1: could almost call relief if it didn't hurt so much.
Speaker 1: He mumbles, I'm sorry, Maia, I really am. I watch
Speaker 1: in silence as he leaves, doors swinging closed with a
Speaker 1: finality that travels through the floor and into my bones.
Speaker 1: For a span of minutes or maybe hours, I sit unmoving,
Speaker 1: gaze fixed to the spot where his shoes used to
Speaker 1: clutter the rug. The first thing I do is call Priya,
Speaker 1: my voice catching on nothing until it's a sob. I
Speaker 1: can't stop. She's at my door within an hour, carrying
Speaker 1: a bottle of wine, snacks, a soft old hoodie. She
Speaker 1: knows I love. She doesn't ask questions, just holds me
Speaker 1: until my breathing slows. The next day, Adam texts a terse,
Speaker 1: grateful message, thanks for not making it worse. I won't
Speaker 1: come back until you say so. I stare at the
Speaker 1: screen for a long time, then turn it face down.
Speaker 1: Our bedroom is stark, half empty, his side picked clean.
Speaker 1: In small, silent departures, I strip the sheets, open the windows,
Speaker 1: listen to the city breathing outside. When mutual friends text
Speaker 1: to ask if I'm coming out, I say, just for now,
Speaker 1: that Adam and I are on a break. I offer
Speaker 1: no details, but I know the storm of whispers is
Speaker 1: already rippling through our overlapping groups. The kitchen is too quiet,
Speaker 1: hollowed out by the missing sound of Adam's laugh, his
Speaker 1: toe tapping, impatience for morning coffee. I find myself reaching
Speaker 1: for inside jokes and coming up empty. Every room feels
Speaker 1: altered by the faint, peeling residue of his withdrawal. Still
Speaker 1: I keep moving, load after load of laundry, old playlists, deleted,
Speaker 1: take out containers, emptied dutifully into trash bags too heavy
Speaker 1: for one person. By nightfall, I finally manage a few
Speaker 1: hours of sleep on Priya's couch, the noises of her
Speaker 1: apartment curled around me like unfamiliar arms. When Adam's departure
Speaker 1: fully hits, it's like gravity shifts. I stagger through the days,
Speaker 1: alternating between blankness and rage, my emotions battered soft by exhaustion.
Speaker 1: I call my mother, offer clipped explanations that she senses
Speaker 1: not to press. Her voice is a touchtun steady in
Speaker 1: the way only a parent's can be. But even she
Speaker 1: can't patch over the raw, bleeding edges this parting has left.
Speaker 1: On the third day, I begin packing up Adam's remaining things,
Speaker 1: a shaving kit under the sink, scattered chargers, a mug
Speaker 1: with a chip in its lip he always meant to glue.
Speaker 1: Each small removal works like a severance, a necessary cruelty.
Speaker 1: Mutual friends keep asking for details I never offer. Leela writes,
Speaker 1: are you okay? You don't have to talk, but I'm here.
Speaker 1: I reply with a heart emoji, unable to muster more.
Speaker 1: Priya sits across from me at my kitchen table after
Speaker 1: another night of wine and Netflix. That neither of us
Speaker 1: pays attention to You did what you had to do,
Speaker 1: she says, Finally, don't let him control the story. That's over.
Speaker 1: I nod, not ready to believe her, but grateful for
Speaker 1: the absolution all the same. The next morning, I pick
Speaker 1: up the last evidence of us from the bathroom Adam's cologne,
Speaker 1: the toothbrush he left in the holder, his favorite face wash.
Speaker 1: I put all of it into a grocery bag. I
Speaker 1: text him your stuff s on the bench outside and
Speaker 1: lock the door after I set it out. For a while,
Speaker 1: everything is routine, work, walks, sleep poorly, one in fitful hours.
Speaker 1: My mind circles the story we built, prodding at its
Speaker 1: collapsed scaffolding for hidden explanations that would make the fall
Speaker 1: less abrupt, less humiliating. But as the weak grinds on
Speaker 1: the ache shifts, it leaves behind something clearer. Yes, I
Speaker 1: was betrayed, but the shadow doesn't own the rest of me.
Speaker 1: It's the little freedoms that surprise me. Playing the records
Speaker 1: in my order, cooking at midnight, if I want letting
Speaker 1: sunlight fill every corner with no one to critique my arrangements,
Speaker 1: I move Adam's extra chair to the hallway, sweep up
Speaker 1: the debris, and notice the odd calm that arrives each
Speaker 1: time the door stays closed for the evening. One night
Speaker 1: after Priya leaves, I sit by myself on the balcony
Speaker 1: with a mug of mint tea Austin's night life humming
Speaker 1: in the distance. The same hum that played under all
Speaker 1: those open mic nights, all that brightness and music, and
Speaker 1: the sense that possibility was still living, just out of sight.
Speaker 1: I realize, with a bracing pang, how simple it feels
Speaker 1: to take up space again. The pain doesn't vanish, but
Speaker 1: it uncoils, some replaced by something quieter, steadier. A week later,
Speaker 1: I buy a ticket to the open mic by myself,
Speaker 1: the same Thursday ritual i've skipped for too many months.
Speaker 1: I leave the condo early jackets slung over my arm,
Speaker 1: nothing but my keys and ten dollars in my pocket.
Speaker 1: The world lighter for being my. The show is comfortingly unchanged,
Speaker 1: cheap lights, half filled rows, the bartender nodding and greeting.
Speaker 1: I sit at my usual table, set down my tea
Speaker 1: instead of a bier, and let the music pour in,
Speaker 1: every lyric landing different than before. The chair beside me
Speaker 1: stays empty, but I stop glancing at it, stop wishing
Speaker 1: it would fill itself. I close my eyes, let my
Speaker 1: head tip back, and feel the fullness of absence, the
Speaker 1: shape of what's gone and what remains, side by side,
Speaker 1: but not at war any more. I sip my tea
Speaker 1: and let the music fill me, volume and warmth rising
Speaker 1: in tandem as the next singer, some kid with shaggy
Speaker 1: bangs and an old telecaster half mumbles his way through
Speaker 1: a radio head cover. The crowd's laughter, the ripple of
Speaker 1: conversations at the bar, the easy swing of bodies in
Speaker 1: and out of the smoky side door, all of it
Speaker 1: keeps me rooted in the moment, neither forward nor back,
Speaker 1: just present. The sea beside me, the one Adam always claimed,
Speaker 1: stays empty all night. Early on, Leelah spots me from
Speaker 1: across the room and starts to wave, but she pauses,
Speaker 1: taking stock of my smile, tight but genuine, or close enough.
Speaker 1: She makes her way through the crowd, dropping into the
Speaker 1: seat on my other side. You hear solo, she asks, quietly,
Speaker 1: voice blending with the hum of a harmonica solo on stage. Yea,
Speaker 1: I say, rolling my mug between my palms, just me
Speaker 1: to night. She looks at me for a long moment,
Speaker 1: weighing something in her eyes. People are saying, you and
Speaker 1: Adam are taking space. I watch the condensation bead on
Speaker 1: my tea something like that. I can see the curiosity,
Speaker 1: the urge to probe, but she holds it back, just
Speaker 1: offering the reliability of company that doesn't demand disclosure. We
Speaker 1: sit in easy silence for a while, and when the
Speaker 1: next act comes up, Leelah whoops loud enough for both
Speaker 1: of us. Half Way through through the second set, my
Speaker 1: phone buzzes with a new text. It's from Adam. His
Speaker 1: name's Stark. The preview line a single blurred message. I
Speaker 1: hesitate before opening it, knowing nothing urgent remains between us,
Speaker 1: but curiosity wins. The message is short, tentative. I know
Speaker 1: you said you need space, Still can we talk not
Speaker 1: about us, about logistics, condo, paperwork, bills, the joint account.
Speaker 1: I can make time to night if you feel up
Speaker 1: to it. If not tonight, then to morrow. I read
Speaker 1: it twice, feeling the not of pure practicality, threading through
Speaker 1: the emotional wreckage. Even after everything, life trundles on leases,
Speaker 1: to review accounts, to pause, splits, to navigate. I reply,
Speaker 1: after a long minute, okay, to night's not good. To
Speaker 1: morrow maybe afternoon. I'll text you when I'm back. Leela
Speaker 1: leans in, seeing something flicker across my face. You don't
Speaker 1: have to talk to him unless you want to, she whispers,
Speaker 1: Then softer if you do, you don't have to do
Speaker 1: it alone. I think I want to, I admit, just
Speaker 1: not hear. She nods, squeezing my forearm lightly before drifting
Speaker 1: back to her circle. I realize then, how our friends
Speaker 1: have subtly rearranged themselves, orbiting around the blast radius, careful
Speaker 1: not to ask too much, not to show pity or pry.
Speaker 1: There's relief in the normalcy, everyone talking about the bands,
Speaker 1: the drinks, the next silly trivia stunt. I let myself
Speaker 1: drift in it, grateful for a single night when my
Speaker 1: heart break is only one story among many. When I
Speaker 1: wake the next morning, the city is already pulsing outside,
Speaker 1: heat pressing against the windows. I wander the condo, less
Speaker 1: haunted now, but still echoing with memory and steel myself
Speaker 1: for the task at hand. I text Adam, come by
Speaker 1: at three. I'll be here the hours until then. Feel loaded,
Speaker 1: charged with all the unspoken things that have fested between us.
Speaker 1: I tidy up, stacking Adams remaining things by the door,
Speaker 1: a weighted pile of old chargers, books, a battered water bottle,
Speaker 1: his streetlingk hoodie. I stack the paperwork, utilities, mortgage statements,
Speaker 1: lists of whose owed what on the breakfast bar. A
Speaker 1: buffer between us more implacable than any argument. At two
Speaker 1: fifty nine, there's a soft knock for a breath. My
Speaker 1: heart pounds like the first time we met, nervous and giddy.
Speaker 1: Then the reality lands. It's just Adam, not the echo
Speaker 1: of some one I used to know. He steps inside,
Speaker 1: looking smaller, uncertain, his hair's unwashed, eyes, puffy, clothes, rumpled
Speaker 1: in a way he would have once teased me for.
Speaker 1: He glances around the room, not meeting my gaze, lingering
Speaker 1: on the empty hooks where his keys used to hang.
Speaker 1: Thanks for seeing me, he says quietly. He nods toward
Speaker 1: the pile by the door. That everything I nod except
Speaker 1: the paperwork. We need to sign the forms for the
Speaker 1: joint account, utility transfer, that kind of thing. He sits
Speaker 1: opposite me at the breakfast, hunched over elbows on knees,
Speaker 1: silent until I slide the forms across the counter. For
Speaker 1: the next twenty minutes, we trade clipped questions and sharper answers,
Speaker 1: Whose name goes where, who keeps the couch? Is the
Speaker 1: Wi Fi worth splitting? Or should I just set up
Speaker 1: a new account? His voice stays steady, but there's a
Speaker 1: brittle quality every syllable, a guardrail against something rour. When
Speaker 1: we finish, I gather the forms, sliding my copy into
Speaker 1: a battered envelope. I'll drop these at the leasing office tomorrow.
Speaker 1: Everything else I can handle, He nods, picking at a
Speaker 1: cardboard coffee cup he brought with him, peeling it down
Speaker 1: to the wax. He seam, I'm sorry, Maya, he says,
Speaker 1: not looking up for everything, not just the obvious, For
Speaker 1: the way I made you doubt yourself. I tuck my
Speaker 1: hands under my thighs afraid they'll shake if I let
Speaker 1: them show. It wasn't just Jess, I say, quietly but clearly.
Speaker 1: It was the lying, the wall you built every time
Speaker 1: you shut me out. It made me question if I
Speaker 1: was even someone you recognized any more. The words come out,
Speaker 1: almost level, stripped of drama, but ringing with truth. He flinches,
Speaker 1: shoulders curling in. I didn't want to hurt you. I
Speaker 1: kept rationalizing, telling myself I was just protecting you, protecting us,
Speaker 1: that it would all sort itself out. It doesn't just
Speaker 1: sort itself out. I say, you have to choose, and
Speaker 1: you didn't. You let your secret world get bigger than
Speaker 1: the one we built. He is silent. For a while,
Speaker 1: then lets out a breath. I can't undo what I did.
Speaker 1: I don't even know yet if Jess or that world
Speaker 1: was ever the answer. I just know I was losing myself,
Speaker 1: and I grabbed for the thing that made me feel
Speaker 1: alive again. I'm sorry, truly for what it cost you.
Speaker 1: I look at his face, search it for the man
Speaker 1: I loved, and see only a shadow, some one diminished
Speaker 1: by his own compromises. Thank you for saying it, I reply.
Speaker 1: My voice is gentler than I expect, but you can't
Speaker 1: fix it for me. You can only live with it.
Speaker 1: He looks about to say more than thinks better of it. Instead,
Speaker 1: he gathers his things, standing up slowly. Take care of yourself, Meyer,
Speaker 1: The finality in the phrase lands with a kind of mercy.
Speaker 1: He leaves the papers on the counter, shoulder brushing against
Speaker 1: the door frame. As he exits. The door shuts on
Speaker 1: his footsteps, and I listen to the click as if
Speaker 1: it's a punctuation mark, one of those periods that in
Speaker 1: music signals a new movement beginning. I lock the door,
Speaker 1: slide the chain into place for the first time in months,
Speaker 1: and walk through the rooms, now wholly mine the air
Speaker 1: feels brighter, the afternoon sunlight vivid through the windows. I
Speaker 1: sit at the kitchen table let. The silence settle around
Speaker 1: me for a long while and allow the knowledge to
Speaker 1: take root. It's done, the worst of it, the ambiguity,
Speaker 1: the waiting, the spinning haze of denial has finally lifted.
Speaker 1: A single robin lands on the balcony, sing against the
Speaker 1: pulse of Austin's distant traffic. I close my eyes, breathe
Speaker 1: it in, and feel my pulse finally, finally steady. And
Speaker 1: that is the end. Thank you for listening, and I
Speaker 1: will see you in the next one.