I stop breathing. I imagine walking forward. Grabbing the lamp from the dresser. Swinging it down. Glass shattering. Blood. Screaming. Something breaking loud enough to match what’s happening inside my chest.
But I don’t move.
My feet feel nailed to the floor. Maybe they know the truth before I do.
You don’t belong here anymore.
Tears slide down my face, but I don’t make a sound. My chest aches so badly it feels like a heart attack, sharp, crushing, relentless. I want to scream. I want to tear the room apart. I want him to look at me and feel something. He doesn’t even know I’m here.
I turn around. Each step down the stairs feels like I’m leaving a body behind. The hallway feels longer than it ever has. The light was too bright. My legs move toward the staircase.
One step. Then another.
My hand slides along the banister because I’m not sure my knees will cooperate without it. The house is silent in that thick, suffocating way that makes you hyperaware of your own breathing.
I descend slowly, like if I rush, reality might catch up to me. Halfway down, I swear I can still hear something upstairs. A laugh. A breath. Or maybe it’s just my pulse pounding in my ears. When I reach the bottom step, I pause. The kitchen comes into view.
And there it is. Two coffee mugs sitting exactly where we left them this morning. Mine, with the faint chip on the handle. His, black, no sugar, always too hot.
I walk toward them like I’m approaching a crime scene. This morning. I kissed him right here. Pressed against the counter, my fingers tangled in his hair. I remember the warmth of his mouth, the way he pulled me in closer. He kissed me back harder than usual.
Slower. Like he was holding on. Like some small part of him didn’t want to let go. I remember that flicker in my stomach then, too. That subtle, sour feeling. Something rotten underneath the sweetness.
I ignored it. Of course I did. Because love teaches you how to doubt your own instincts. I stare at his mug now. At the faint imprint on the rim. He kissed me like he meant it.
And I don’t know if that makes this better—
Or so much worse.
I close the door softly behind me. Like I’m the one who did something wrong. Not a slam. Not even a click loud enough to echo. Just the quiet press of wood meeting frame, sealing whatever is happening up in that room away from me.
For a second, my hand stays on the knob. Steady. Then I walk away from the front door. From the man who once stood across from me and said ’til death do us part like it was sacred. From the man I’ve been married to for three years. The man I met five years ago and thought, stupidly, beautifully, this is it.
The night air feels different as I step off the porch. Colder. Sharper. Like it knows something I don’t yet.
And suddenly I’m somewhere else.
***
Another night. Years ago.
Late.
A friend of mine picked me up from my apartment. She promised we’d “just have a drink.” Just one. Just to get out of the house.
We ended up at Moonlit Bar, loud, packed, bodies pressed too close together. The air is thick with tequila and cheap cologne. People chugging booze to manufacture courage. To blur edges. To make conversations easier. To pretend they weren’t lonely.
“We’ll be here maybe two hours,” Mia had said. “I promise. I just need a drink.”
She didn’t even make it for two minutes. Her hand was already on a man’s shoulders at the bar. He was sitting with his back to us, broad frame, relaxed posture, like he was exactly where he meant to be.
“Hi, Dominic,” she said brightly. “We’re here.”
He turned. And all I saw were his eyes.
Blue.
Not soft blue. Not sky blue.