He Rehearsed His Lies Until They Sounded Like Love

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Hello, I'm welcome to cheating all the time.

Glad you are here.

Let's get into this next crazy cheat.

Say the line again, but make it softer like you were telling her a secret,

I urged.

Nijimako's foot under the coffee table as he sprinted at script in his hands.

He rolled his head back, flopping into the sofa cushions,

and side an exaggerated suffering.

Emma doesn't have any secrets.

He just has bad puns and monologues about his childhood pain.

I grin, prodding.

If you're not convincing as Emma by opening night, they'll swap you for the back up.

He's shorter, but he can cry on command.

Marco toss a fru pillow at me and I dodge, turning my smile into one his Emma would give vulnerable, softly disarming.

I'm only here for the free snacks.

Marco matched my look, but his gaze slid off me, landing somewhere over my shoulder,

then darting to his phone on the coffee table as it poles with a series of buzzes.

His mouth twitch somewhere between smile and grimace.

He pressed the lock button, darkening the screen, and mutter,

sorry, cast group chat, probably cue changes, or more means from Adam.

Yeah?

I leaned over trying to spot the notifications preview.

Marco shifted his elbow, blocking my way, and flashed a distracted smile

I come to recognize from rehearsal nights.

He rose quickly, gathering his notes, the lines abandoned half-read.

I caught the shadow of scent lifting from his hoodie of puffy arms,

wheat, and peppery at once, hardly the laundry so by-horned it for his theatre clothes.

It was subtle enough I almost doubted myself at first, until he turned and the aroma drifted off him,

neon compared to the usual scent of our living room.

Marco's energy frayed at the edges evasive, jittery.

Mind if I grab a shower?

That sage just is making me itch?

Go ahead, I replied, but kept my gaze fixed,

measuring the line of tensions exiting from his clenched jortus, hammering thumb,

flicking through text previews as he walked toward the hallway.

He vanished into the bathroom almost before I could respond.

I listened for the telto shuffle of clothes and the quickening pattern of water.

Through the frosted glass, silence at first,

then the hurried rhythm of a man scrubbing something away.

A few minutes later, he came out, hair damp, skin-pinked from a too hot shower.

He was clean, another scent trailing from him my citrus body wash,

not quite masking the echo of the elbow perfume.

He barely met my eyes and said, ghosting his palm across my shoulder as he scooped up his phone.

I'll just check in on lines before bed, big tech rehearsal tomorrow,

he said, already stepping into the hallway as the phone began to vibrate again in his palm.

When I peered over at the screen, I caught only the edge of a name, Sierra Theatre.

The message preview was gone, Marco shot me a fleeting grin and called,

just production stuff, back in a sec.

Left in the couch, I stared at the wall, a pale yellow glow pulling around me from the standing lamp.

The night felt stretched thin, as if even the apartments all bones sensed something shifting.

I pressed my nose to the arm of Marco's abandoned hoodie and inhaled,

surging for the trace of her scent, wanting evidence as much as I wanted to be wrong.

Back then, before these little emissions, I wouldn't have given a second thought to who was texting Marco,

or why he'd suddenly started showering the second he got home.

I'd have chalked it up to nerves, or maybe opening night jitters.

Those first years together made suspicion feel impossible.

Marco and I had always been a teen, our life a patchwork of care,

and habits sewn together in private, ordinary ways.

We woke every morning to the kettle's whistle and exchanged wordless glances,

as we bumble through coffee making, his hand always falling into mine

and the weight of the fridge.

Mornings meant crosswood games with toast crumbs between us,

our banta weaving between old and side jukes and declarations of mock war

over who'd solve the tough ones first.

This, the depassion, had pulled me into the city's makeshift performance bases,

a two of us huddled on musty lawn chairs, splitting peanut M and MS in the dark.

Community theatre was Marco's oxygenous friends, his rituals,

his reason to rehearse monologues in the shower and slip into my lap between line runs.

For years, I didn't mind being the plus one logging tupperware dinners to rehearsals,

silently mouthing cues from the back row as he tried out accents and slapstick bits.

We'd rehearse scenes over stir fries on the couch,

the show bleeding into our private world until Marco's laughter seemed to echo from both stages.

Our mutual support was the glue he called me his lucky charm,

the one who could calm his nose, who cared enough to take cue cards inside his shoes,

and stitch missing buttons onto his black pants at midnight.

When he forgot lines, he'd nozzle my neck, whispering,

you're my secret weapon, framing every mistake as evidence we belonged.

Truss wasn't a word we needed to say out loud.

It was firefly bright, casual, taken for granted.

But now, as the weeks ticked by and that strained perfume appeared twice,

then three times, each time stronger I counted these older comforts

and wondered if I was stoppiling proof against an invisible threat.

Day by day, nothing changed up right, and yet everything did.

Marco still rose at dawn for his Sunday jogs,

still pressed his palm to the small of my back when we crossed Burnside for groceries,

still dropped jokes into our conversation like Marshmallow's and Cucco.

But new cracks had begun to show, thin fishers running quietly through us.

The first age to that feeling came with his new rehearsal schedule

always a little later than before, because the cast just gets along really well this time.

I waited up once, then twice, the ball of pasta congealing

by my elbow while I scroll past midnight, eyes dragging to the front door

every time a car passed outside.

He tumble through the entryway at nearly 1 a.m.,

laughter brittle voice too loud, offering kisses, beholding himself stiff.

Sorry, babe, cast in a round late we lost track of time,

heaks cues, then padded into the kitchen for water, eyes flicking quickly away from mine.

At first I chalked it up to opening weak nerves.

The play was ambitious, the cast knew, Sierra the group's latest addition

had never worked with Marco before.

When I finally met her at a Saturday rehearsal reception,

I orchestrated by delivering snacks to the green room,

she wore her hair in a braided crown and sported eyeliner

so shot it could have sliced my debts in half.

She laughed too readily at Marco's jokes, head to room back,

touching his forearm with easy familiarity.

Did you meet the infamous Sierra yet, but one of the stage of hands whisper,

peeling a cupcake wrapper.

She's got Marco re-learning half the blocking, real firecracker,

but she keeps us on time.

I'd watch Marco then watch how he grinned at Sierra,

how his gaze didn't flinch from her as the way it did sometimes from mine.

But he came home with me, hugging my waist and murmuring

thank yous for the effort, for the snacks, for the sport.

Until the first Saturday he forgot our tradition,

burgers and trivia night at my commandments.

I texted at seven, asterisk on my way.

For ice for you or no?

Asterisk he replied on the after-night,

a jiff of tap-dancing penguins, the text Asterisk total chaos here,

cast in a red line, sorry.

Tick a rain check.

Asterisk had consoled myself with a walk in the drizzle,

the ache of the empty seat beside me dumb and obvious.

When he returned that night again with the odd perfume,

vaguely sweet and exotic, an ecliptopology he seemed

both present and remote.

I watched him from across the dinner table,

his gaze rooted in his phone.

He smiled at a message that arrived while I was dishing up pasta

the lock screen briefly lighting with Sierra Theatre.

He half laughed at something he read and,

when I raised an eyebrow, he shook his head,

brushing off the inquiry,

grouped chats wilder there trying to me my director now.

I reached for his hand, but he drew it back,

twisting his wedding band until it clicked against the table.

After dinner he cleared his plates with deliberate care,

muttering, sorry, just a lot on my mind with these rehearsals.

It's a much bigger production than before.

He didn't offer the usual good night kiss,

crawling into bed and falling asleep with his phone clutch to his chest.

The small changes were barely perceptible,

yet they locked into place.

One after another, Marko laughing at his phone

late into the night, screen brightness turned down,

sometimes stepping out onto the balcony for air.

His phone, once left anywhere in the house,

was now passed with locked face down.

Castenners became more frequent,

always just running late,

always weirdly fun this time around.

He came home smelling of wine,

laughter stuck in his throat, hugging me,

hello, but letting him brace brick first too soon.

His text me grew shorter asterisk love you,

late to night asterisk punctuated

by silences that yon through our evenings like teeth.

I found myself making more elaborate dinners,

kicking his favorite chicken paccato,

ginger beef bowls, whole roasted vegetables.

Sometimes he'd bring home takeout instead,

already full apologizing, sorry,

cast insisted on ordering in.

Can we save this for tomorrow?

His explanations were practiced now.

Someone else had chosen the restaurant,

everyone had to stay in bond.

You know how opening night gets.

When I greeted him on the stairwell,

sometimes I catch a bold slick of unfamiliar perfume,

almost floral swelling in the air

between us before I could speak.

If I asked he'd wave it off,

Sierra wears way too much glow,

but she gives the best slime readings,

you're not actually jealous of my stage wife,

are you?

And he tried to make it a joke

to flip my concern into a punchline,

only to end a conversation before I could answer.

Other nights I'd put my head

into the living room and see Marco on a call,

laughed a stitch with Hush.

I'd hear Sierra's name drift through the half open door,

always paved with lightweight teases,

never quite innocent, can't wait till Friday know,

you make me look good on stage,

is where.

When I'd enter, he'd hang up quickly,

cradling his phone like something too fragile to share.

If I pressed, he'd bristle, voice sharpening,

it's work, not what you think,

you know how intense this show gets.

But the easy mood between us thickened,

sired by things unsaid.

He still performed the gestures wiping crumbs

from my chin, cupping my cheeks in the mornings,

texting me silly memes,

but they felt more like duty than impulse.

I started questioning what was real,

what was simply repetition.

Sometimes I tried to catch him off guard,

swinging by rehearsal early with baked goods,

watching from backstage as the actors ran scenes.

Once, before I run through, I stood behind her

Ralph chair and watched Sierra lean in close to Marco

between their cue cards, pressing her hand to his arm,

giggling at something just for him.

He glanced my way, flustered, and stepped back.

When I walked up a coffee,

their conversation scattered,

Sierra twirling a pen between her fingers,

eyes starting to Marco.

He smiled at me,

but his mouth twitched, eyes sliding left.

I watched her sling her scarf over her shoulder,

perfect trailing,

leaving Marco blinking after her.

When we pat up to leave,

he struggled with his lens,

his voice jittery as I offered to run them with him.

He met my gaze, searching,

then cleared his throat and said,

let's just do it at home, and dead on my feet.

I tried to hold his hand in a parking lot,

but he slipped his foreign free

and started typing for a brow,

let's press tight.

The receipt started piling in next.

The first few were a knock,

his crumpled fast food and coffee slips,

nothing odd.

Then, tucked in the side pocket of his rehearsal bag,

a late-night taxi stub from the east side,

time stamped after midnight.

A receipt for a two-top at the wine cellar,

a place we'd only been together for anniversaries.

Receipts for craft cocktails,

ones I knew he didn't like,

written for tabs left open until one in the morning.

I sifted through the bag,

in the half dark,

heart-pitching between hope and dread,

telling myself it was grew boundings,

direct meetings,

cast strategy sessions.

But I couldn't shake the sense that these places

were not meant for crowds they were intimate,

candlelit,

the kind of spots you found your reflection

in someone else's eyes.

The stranger's didn't lit up at home.

On nights,

when Marco crashed on the couch after rehearsals,

I began to notice lipstick stains on mug's lipstick I never wore,

deep rose,

not the colorless chapstick I favored.

Once, cleaning up after him,

I found a mug in the sink sear as lipstick,

clear as a thumbprinted room resting inside Marco's empty coffee cup.

Not in rehearsal,

not in any backstage area,

but at our house.

The explanation felt slippery,

hard to summon.

Things came to a head on a Thursday

when I overheard him rehearsing line's lead

at night's voice lower,

coated with laughter I hadn't heard in weeks.

Outside the door,

I could just make out your trouble, Sierra.

I really can't wait till Friday now.

I won't tell her,

don't be crazy okay,

and a bit awaited counting the seconds,

pressing upon to the painted world,

trying to decide if I was being paranoid or simply present.

When I pushed in on him,

Marco pelled a little,

hanging up quickly,

from screen turned to his chest.

I asked charioply,

who are you talking to so late?

He bristled,

shoving script into his bag.

It's work for God's sake.

We're blocking the new love scene.

Sierra wandered podders from the director.

What do you think it is?

He sounded tired, irritable,

teeth flushed,

and a brittle half-smile,

daring me to challenge the innocence of it,

to lay my suspicions on the table.

I tried,

it just feels like you're hiding something.

He shot back,

I'm not,

it's theatre,

not daytime TV,

just let me get through the next two weeks.

I offered to help him prep for the Friday scene,

but he only waved me off,

it's nothing just staging,

he'd be bored.

I tried to hold him,

but he slipped away.

Still, I couldn't let it go.

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That night I scrolled assertions

for any trace I found nothing,

no tags from Sierra,

no photos,

not even grouped in as others.

I walked the next morning

with Amika the back of my throat,

re-bling every laugh,

every miss call,

every jaunt to the wine bar.

I started to doubt myself.

Was it me?

Was it boredom?

Was I projecting unhappiness

onto the only piece of our life

that looked new from the outside?

Friday came,

packed with our usual pretenses.

I cooked his fever a stir fry,

left a bottle of bread

in the counter,

and counted the I.O.'s.

Marco texted at six,

Asteris cast in a running late.

Don't wait up.

Love you.

Asteris kept midnight

the apartment was silent,

but for the hum of the fridge.

I sat in the glow of my phone,

reading and rereading old conversations

for signs I'd missed.

The next morning,

sat a date of tech rehearsal

I made up my mind.

While Marco was showering,

I pulled through his rehearsal back

for a swedder he'd asked me to find.

As I sifted scripts

and crinkle receipts,

something fluttered loose,

a folded note,

a screen pages,

cream paper thin at the edges.

The handwriting was neat,

curly, not Marco's.

Asterisk last night was with the risk.

As asterisk.

I stared a moment,

how jack-a-moring,

trying to decipher the intent,

risk of what?

Late dinner?

Or something bigger,

something I'd been piecing together,

afraid to name out loud.

I carried the note into the bathroom,

confronting him while the steam

still clung to the mirror.

What's this, Marco?

He took it, squinted,

then rolled his eyes,

letting out a sharp breath.

Though, come on,

theater joke.

Sierra leaves joking notes

for everyone's shoes,

like infamous for it,

probably about the cast sneaking out early.

You're reading into it.

There's nothing between us,

seriously.

He moved toward me,

reaching for my hands,

voice syrup's wheat.

Hey, come on,

don't let this stuff get between us.

I know it's been weird,

I'll make it up to you.

Let's do date nights again this week.

Yeah, real ones.

He settled into extra affection

over the next few days,

picking up pastries,

texting memes,

even suggesting a movie night.

For a moment,

I believed him.

Other hersals, though,

the pattern spun on his laughter

with Sierra to warm,

their conversations muffled

from across the green room.

Private touch has not

meant for anyone else to see.

A conge to his apologies

held onto his new attentions,

but underneath,

I knew something had slipped for good.

Trust,

once lost,

it's like a drop pearl

you might find it again,

but it never quite shines the same.

With show we can limit,

I tried to play the good spouse,

I baked,

I bizzied myself

with practicalities,

tried to focus on my own work.

But every time Marco's

phone paused with messages,

every time his laughter drifted

from the hallway at night,

I felt myself bracing,

waiting for the other shoe to drop.

One night,

unable to sleep,

I found myself pulling up all

photos on my phone,

Marco and I at Manhood

wrapped in wool scarves,

snowmelting on our eyelashes.

As in the audience

of his lost plate,

my head on his shoulder,

both of us laughing.

Standing enough,

first apartment kitchen,

hands covered in flyer,

Marco lifted me to reach the top shelf.

I pressed my finger to each screen,

unable to keep the question

from flaring

when I started being

another background character

in his new story.

After one late rehearsal,

I sat in the back of the theatre,

pretending to scroll my phone,

listening to Marco

and see error run lines.

The voices were low,

intimate,

even when the scene

called for distance.

I stayed late,

helping backstage,

watching for any

secret signals.

Sierra's lipstick

was fresh and obvious,

her smile always

flaring when Marco

entered the room.

I saw them passing

each of the notes,

stuffing giggles.

They shared coffee,

passing Sierra's mug

between them.

Once Sierra left

scoff behind

and Marco dripped

it across his bag,

smoothing the silk

as if it were precious.

I cornered Marco

on the drive home.

You two seemed close.

You're spending

a lot of time

together off stage two,

yeah?

Marco's face

barely twitched.

She's my stage wife,

attacking,

you jealous?

He nudged me,

half-hearted,

then turned up the radio,

ending the conversation.

I stood through the

windshield,

had let's catching rain.

The radio played

oldies,

Marvin Gaye,

crooning about love gun

wrong.

Each night,

my hope withered

a little more.

I felt it in my chest,

a contortion whenever

Marco laughed at his phone,

whenever Sierra

appeared at the fringe

of his not-just stories,

never clearly,

always blowed at the edge.

That last week,

the strain pressed

in from all sides.

Marco's absence

is the can-

he was always

off at cast dinners

with the group.

Never naming names,

always general,

always vague.

When I offered to join,

he'd sprinkle reassurance

as it's so boring,

babe, you'd fall asleep,

that's really just

theater gossip.

I owe you for skipping out,

that then slip on his coat,

running out the door

on a tide of enthusiasts,

and that felt like

it belonged to someone else.

Our dinners became

solitary.

I'd plate his food,

wait until the microwave

peep for the third time,

then eat alone,

scrolling for updates

from other friends,

trying desperately

not to check Sierra's

accounts for hints.

Some nights,

when Marco came home

already full,

smelling fiendy

of Jerry Wine

and powdery perfume,

he'd kiss my forehead

instead of my mouth.

Each time,

affinched.

Wednesday night,

Marco didn't come home

all his message simple,

to drive.

Sorry.

Love you see you tomorrow.

Asterisk, I lay in bed,

covers pull to my shoulders,

picturing him and Sierra

laughing on the neon

lit couch of some

after Ayersbaugh,

her hand on his thigh,

the gap between them

no longer deniable.

That next evening,

while folding laundry,

I found a scarf

tucked between his shirts

a silk wrap,

glittering with dread,

and mistakenly searers.

I pressed it to my nose,

her perfume,

heavy and sweet,

nearly overwhelming.

My hands shook

as I bundled it back

into the drawer,

and show whether to confront

Marco or wait for another lie.

I decided to wait

to let the evidence build.

I was afraid I was

inventing ghosts afraid too,

that I was being

made one by Marco's new

life.

I imagined that if I could

just catch him,

prove it or feedably,

I'd finally know what to do.

But even as I doubted,

Marco ramped up his

attentions,

bringing home bakery

caustasts,

squeezing my hands at random

intervals,

gushing over old

movies on the couch

on night he was home.

The affection was real

enough to confuse me,

but at rehearsals,

he never looked away

from Sierra,

not for long.

I nodded along to his

side, the certainty

was growing,

something had already

been broken.

I started to measure our

marriage and leftovers,

in empty bedsheets,

in a weight of a scarf

that wasn't mine

and a perfume I never wore.

I still wanted to

believe Marco,

wanted the storage

to resolve a

misunderstanding, a phase

a trick of my own

insecurity.

But every night,

as he vanished into his

phone, texting beneath the

covers or out on the

balcony in a drizzle,

I felt the end pulling

closer.

Still, I held my tongue.

I told myself,

one more day,

one more proof.

I wasn't ready yet

to face the truth,

I already felt

culling in my bones.

One more day,

one more proof.

I wasn't ready yet to

face the truth,

I already felt culling

in my bones.

That Saturday,

I told Marco I

might swing by after

rehearsal,

maybe meet the cast for

drinks half-daring,

have hopelessly

needy.

He hesitated the

smallest fraction,

aligning his keys

with the bowl by the

door.

It'll be late,

babe, and honestly,

kind of boring,

we're going over

lighting cues and

some notes,

probably pizza and

sandwiched.

I tilted my head

eye in him.

I can survive a little

fog machine drama,

or pizza.

I miss seeing you be

the fun one.

I tried to make

it a tease,

but my voice nagged.

He dropped a quick

kiss on my cheek

and squeezed my

shoulder.

Next week,

promise.

Then he was already

out,

jimbags long over one

shoulder,

sent trailing the height

and illa, powder,

the faintest chair

or something.

As the door closed,

I thought about

calling a friend

for destruction,

and he told me

that I was going to

kill his name.

I remembered the time I

told her how lucky I

was to have Marco.

How kind, how decent,

how about all those

dramas?

I put my phone down

and sat in the kitchen

surrounded by the echo

of my own faith.

10 p.m.

passed then 11.

I rushed my patients

by folding laundry,

watching the window

for headlights, scrolling

until my eyes

dropped.

When Marco finally

texted Astros

still stuck here,

CEO's car broke

down, we're helping

her you-be-home.

Don't wait

to bastard my

help.

I'm up Astros,

but he didn't answer.

It wasn't just the

secrecy anymore,

it was the care

with which he excused

the error and included

her in every problem

in solution.

She was in each

story of flat tire,

forgotten prop,

and inside joke I'd

only hear the trailing

punch line of.

The next day,

rehearsal ran into

the afternoon.

I decided half-spipful,

half-despft to show up

with snacks for the cast.

I crammed home a

brownies into a tin,

slayed on my

softer sweater, and

tipped the long

streak I'll ride to

the theatre, knitting my

top of activity made

me feel peripheral,

grew huddled around

light boards,

background actors

running their lines.

I hunted for Mako,

finding him finally

on stage,

sitting cross-legged

beside Seer.

The heads were

bowed together,

over a battered

skirt, hands nearly

touching.

I paused,

watching him laugh,

his real laugh,

the one that shook his

chest, the one I felt

wake me at night.

He said something,

Seer's hand lifted,

rested for a beat on his

wrist.

He didn't move it

away.

I clenched a brownie

on his wrist.

My voice was

too chipper,

and everyone stared as

if I'd stepped on to

the set and announced.

Seer looked up first,

smelled so

unradient.

Oh, you must be

Mako's wife,

I've heard so much

about you.

Her grip lingued on

Mako's wrist,

inward drew with a

flutter of her

manicured nails.

I saw all the

glint of her ring,

thick with an ammo,

white as icing.

Mako smiled at me,

only half-bear.

Hey, this is Seer,

Seer, this is Zoot.

He stumbled on my

name as if for a

moment he'd

wondered,

and he shot a glance

to Seer that didn't

need words.

I forced it

cheerful,

nice to finally meet

you, I hope you're

keeping him in line.

Seer laughed

a son that rolled

up like honey.

More like the other way

around, to be honest.

The conversation

fizzled,

drained by the obvious

energy crackling

between them.

Mako thanked me for the

brownies, and in the

swirl of pleasantries

it was clear, I was

set dressing, another

prop.

I drifted to the

back, dropped the

brownie Tim with the

others, and watched

him.

I had only

fragments, run

over the morning,

seen again.

Sure, after I

still think we could

did, I left as the

son went down, the

weight in my stomach

more clawing

than hunger.

That evening,

Mako came home with a

bag of takeout.

Figured you'd be

tired of cooking, he

announced, shrugging

out of his coat.

We had a

late lunch at

rehearsal, but I bought

your favorite.

He watched my face

carefully, as he

set the cotton down, like

a magician, hoping

not to be caught

up.

I tried to conjure

our old routine,

desperate for some

familiar warm.

Want to watch a

movie?

I asked.

I could pick one of

the bad ones you

love.

I have to run lines

first.

Maybe later, he

replied, already halfway

to the bedroom

scrolling.

Don't wait up.

Later, when I

crept in, the hum of his

voice build from under the

bathroom door, punctured

it with muffled

laughter.

Yeah, no, I can't.

That would be

insane.

Friday's risky

already know.

He caught my eyes

startled, then thought

into a smile.

Couldn't sleep

figured I tried to get

some lines stuck in

my head.

The big scene is a

killer.

I watched him sorting

through his scripts

with deliberate calm,

willing myself to

believe him, but the

scene vibrated wrong.

Even the way he stacked

his pages was

unfamiliar, hurried, almost

panicked.

That week blurred the

same rhythms over

corrected care during the

day, wall splintering

at night.

I kept baking, kept

bringing pastries, kept

showing up, refusing to

be a race from the story

of my own life.

I waited a seeer

except from a coffee

mug of doc lipstick

kinking the rim.

She handed the mug

to Marco, who drank

without a word.

The gesture was so

intimate to her to

look at.

Later, I found the

mug on the greenoom

sink, the same lipstick.

Marco's

fingerprints smudge

beside it.

I gathered my

proof-like broken

glass, afraid to touch

any piece too closely.

When the show finally

opened, the theatre

filled with the hum

of friends and

families.

I sat in the

fourth row, pretending

to forget the

weeks of distance, the

scene.

I let myself

believe in the

illusion, but whenever

he faced seeer, the

air between them, scene

charge, private, the

queues laden with

something more than

rehearsal.

When seeer leaned

into his gesture during

their love scene, he

pressed his hand to her

cheek not the stage

direction, but a caress

I'd known for years.

My cheek

spurned.

A plow scattered

around me, but I felt

brittle, barely holding

together.

After the bows, I

waited for him in the

lobby.

He emerged, sweating

and exhilarated, surrounded

by casmets.

When I put my arm around

Marko's waist, he

startled, then made a

quick show of pressing a

kiss to my hair.

Star of the show, he

introduced, voice too

loud.

We drove home in

silence Marko's hand

never leaving the

wheel.

While some crowd

tonight, he said after

a while.

You see mom and dad?

Anotted, looking out

at rain's mirror glass.

They loved it.

Seeer was really

impressive too.

He grunted, tapping his

thumbs on the steering

wheel.

Yeah, she's a pro.

Mix things

easier.

A stoplight is

on buzzed.

The cough filled with

the faint sound of

laughter his.

Then seeer's

ringtone he silenced

it before I could

look.

At home, he vanished

into the shower,

closed bald in the

sink.

Soared in the laundry

later, I found an

napkin crumpled in a

pocket of his

jeans thick with

lipstick.

A curl of

handwriting I

didn't recognize,

asterisk you killed

it tonight.

See you after?

Asterisk.

I sat on the edge of

the bed, napkin crushed

in my fist, breath

rattling in my chest.

It all built next

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every excuse

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cab receipt from

neighborhoods we

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On Sunday, when I

slipped up and asked

coffee before you head

to the matinee, he

looked at his phone

and replied,

oh, Sierra's got

car trouble again.

I'm giving her a

lift. We need to go

over the new blocking

lines anyway.

His smile was

apologetic, practiced.

Love you, don't

wait up.

There was always

a reason, always

night out.

I watched him one

morning, the

Monday after closing, we

can scratching his

chin in the steamy

bathroom area, still

humming some inside

jokite never heard.

I passed him a

towel, wishing for one

moment of real

transparency.

But when his eyes

met mine, he

slid away again, humming

louder.

Something in me

hard in that week, I

started looking for

records.

Marco's passwords

had changed again, locking

up his phone, his

laptop, even his

spot fellist.

I started watching the

bank account process

that made me

afraid of finding

something.

The transactions were

all there, lift

rides at midnight

across the river,

reservations at wine

bars, fancy dinners

for two.

Each time I

wanted to believe the

story, someone's birthday,

some after-party, something

harmless.

Tuesday morning, I

worked before him by

accident the whole we

called on my bare

feet. I heard muffled

giggling from the

kitchen-mocko on the

phone, voice-pitch-low,

whispering, and no, she

still asleep.

Yeah, last night was

perfect to miss you

already, Friday

definitely.

I stood frozen at

his back.

When he heard me

shuffle, he snapped his

phone close, smile

suddenly wide and

forced.

Hey, Europa,

couldn't sleep. He

swept me into a loose

hug, chin dusting my

hairline, but his

hand trembled against my

back. I let it all

pass, pretending at

warmth while his lie

hung in the air

between us. He

left for work not long

after, was thing a

song I didn't

recognize. I

stood in the kitchen

stillness, feeling the

room's elongate, every

inch of our life

blurred at the edges. I

walked to the theatre

that night and

announced, no text and

cluddled in my jacket

against a shop and

assistant wind. The

rehearsal space was

dark, empty except for

cleaning staff.

Castin ended early, the

janitor told me, voice

vague. I think they all

headed for a drink

somewhere else. I'm sure

what pulled me, I

wandered to the bar block

away, the kind Marco

never went to too

bouchy for his

tastes. I pressed my

face to the cold

window. There was

Marco, tucked into a

corner booth, shattered

in low light. Sears

at, crossed from him, had

tilted, her laugh to

glowing. They held

hands and whined only

as a server passed, and

then drew close again as

if compelled. Marco

leaned in, whispering, his

gaze fixed on hers.

Then he's a line, neither

noticing the rest of the

world. Sear reached over,

tracing his jaw, then

kissed him a quick practice

pecked up broke no

surface tension, only

deepened it. Marco's

mild, his hand tightening

on hers. I could have

watched forever, numb and

electrified all at once.

Instead, I stepped away, boot

scuffing on wet pavement, my

pulse roaring in my ears. I

felt at once weightless

and crushed. The walk home

was endless. My hands

clenched inside my pockets,

fingertips pinch tied over

the cold band of my

wedding ring. When Marco

came in that night later

than ever, his hair encolmed.

Showed half and tucked

out was waiting in the

kitchen, hands wrapped around

a chipmog of teacon cold. He

froze. Year up late. His

voice was too steady. I

didn't move. Where were

you? He busied himself

with the mail, screen-turning

over in his palm, never

looking at me. Adam wanted

to go for drinks, sear-

attacked along, long

night, sorry. I set down

the mug, each word measured. I

saw you at Lake Avenue

Wine Bar. It was just the

two of you. He blinked, face

closing like a fist. It's

not to look. It's not what

it looked like. I stood

relentless now. I watched

you. I saw her kiss you. You

were holding hands. I don't

care about the story. Just

tell me. What is going on? He

threw up his hands, voice

starting too loud. It's

nothing. All right. You're

making this into a god. It was

a joke. We all went up

first and everyone left early.

Sear was upset. She just

broke up with her boyfriend

and it. I stared him down. My

voice flat. Don't lie. Not

now. Marcos said, robbing

his face. I never meant for it

to happen. I didn't. She

look. It was stupid. Okay. I

swear we just got close with

the show. It just happened. My

throat burned. How close was

it just tonight? He kept his

eyes shut, breathing hard. It

wasn't just tonight. It started

a few weeks ago. I didn't

plan it. She just I felt alive

again, like the parts of me I

couldn't reach anymore. He has

started up my neck, but I will

them back. Parts you couldn't

share with me. He shook his

head, desperate. That's not

what I meant. You, your my best

friend. I didn't want to lose

us. I thought maybe I could

keep both. I pressed, did you

sleep with her? A long

silence. Then a tiny nod. And

you lied to me, a verren over.

Each phrase landed like a stone.

He burst out. I didn't want to

hurt you. I thought if the show

ended, so would this. I tried to

stop, but I. I cut him off

shaking, cold with clarity. You

made the choice to every night.

Every time you looked me in the

eyes and lied, there's no accident

here. He reached for me as red.

Let me fix this, please. I love you.

Let's talk. I step back, letting

space between us widen. There was

nothing to talk about, Marco. He

tripped after me as I walked down the

hall to the bedroom, voice cracking.

Please, we can figure this out. I swear.

I'll end it. I'll do anything. Just

talk to me, please. Just did. I swept

clothes into a suitcase with shaking

hands, not bothering to fold

a sword. My ring burned in my pocket

heavy and cold. Every heartbeat

was a drum in my ears. Marco

blocked the doorway to

soaking his cheeks. Don't go.

Please, don't go. I was an

idiot. That doesn't mean you. I brush

past him, voice low and final. I'm

going to Julie's. Don't call. Don't

text. I need distance. He stood in

the kitchen, silent now, staring at the

dinner I laid out eyes ago and touched

and already cold. At the door,

suitcase rattling behind me, I

post just long enough to breathe in

the quiet. I let myself look at him

one last time last. Broken. The pieces

of our life scattered around him. I

pulled the door gently shut, feeling the

weight of my ring in my hand and stepped

into the chill of the night. The air sharp

on my skin as I walked down the empty

street, knowing nothing in my life

would ever be the same. My wheels

scraped the pavement and they pulled my

suitcase behind me. The air dampen

were all my cheeks. Each exhale

blew me in the dark. I didn't look

back, not when Marco shouted after me,

not when I heard the front door click

shut, not even when my phone buzzed

and buzzed in my pocket as name

rising and falling, as if trying to

break through a wall that had already

sealed between us. The street lamp at the

corner flicker taft heartedly as I stopped

to steady myself, gripping the useless

handle of my bag. For a moment, I just

stood there, but quiet broken only by the

hum of distant traffic in the soft, at going

click of my phone against my leg. I dial

Julie. She picked up halfway through the

first ring. I'm coming over, I said,

voice thick as old honey. She didn't ask

for details, just said, the guess sheets

are clean, doors unlocked. That simple

permission to lock something brittle

inside me, I'd write myself to the

cub and waited for a ride, head bowed, avoiding

any glance back at the building, the window

is now mostly dark day for the faint glow

from our kitchen. The car rides gripped

by insolence. The driver made light talk

about the rain, the construction on

Halforn, asked if I needed to heat turned

up. I shook my head, clutching the

bathed suitcase closer, guiding my mind away

from Marco, his voice, his scent, his

please. Instead, I fixed my gaze in the

blurred city lights, watched them stutter

and string together into shapes that made

no sense. Julie opened the door before I

could even knock. She took one look at my

face and took me indoors, guided me to

the couch, pressed a mug of tepety into my

hands. I tried to speak, tried to explain

what should have been obvious, but my

voice failed, splintered into row syllables.

She didn't force me to fill the space.

Instead, she rummaged for blankets, covered

my knees, kept talking softly about her

neighbor's cat and a new boat can nearby.

I let her words wash over me, staring at the

mug in my lap, the ring still digging into

my pocket. A strange stillness settled.

I watched as Julie's apartment filled with

the silence as I'd spent weeks trying to

ignore. This space was cramped, cluttered in

a way that made a fill safe sock strapped over the

back of a chair, a dental bill stuck to the

fridge. I realized with a pan that I'd been

holding my breath for weeks, maybe longer,

fighting a war against the knowledge of

Marco's betrayal that now felt and

containable. Every sound from my phone stung

three calls from Marco, then six, then rap attacks

that started polite, then edged into panic.

I turned off notifications, face turned to the

cushion, wishing sleep would come. But

even with Julie hovering nearby and a casserole

smell creeping in from her kitchen to eat kept

its distance. Instead, I laid there, teeth pressed

together, my mind looping through every detail of the

mug, the scoff, the receipts, the lipstick, the way

his voice sounded when he lied. Morning pressed in a

gray insolven. Julie left quietly for work, a

notes girl done the microwave, asterisk whatever

you need. Take as long as you want. Asterisk has

set up, stomach hollow, maftry, bring catching up

to the reality of what I'd done. Each ordinary thing

the shower curtain, the cold towel floor, the spare

toothbrush felt wrong, bored. Everything I touched

seemed to vibrate with the wrongness of being

somewhere that was my own home. The eggs spun new

edges, I had no clean clothes except what I'd

managed to throw haphazardly into my back. I found

my arms trembling as I tried to entangle a clump of

sweaters. I washed my face ignoring the ghost of

mascara smeared onto my eyes and refused to let

myself cry again, not yet. At noon, hundred crept

in, mechanical and uninvited. I picked at the

casserole, let the cheese cool into ridges, my body

refusing to accept come for chief and fruit

seemed like a betrayal. The day was colorless, the

city outside muffled by drizzle and the muffling

wall pervacillation. Each time a car went by, I

imagined Marco pacing the kitchen, pressing

redial, imagining apologies that no longer had a

home. By late afternoon, he tried again from a

block number. The screen blinked with the vague

thread of a myeletic ring counted every beat

then blocked it too. I always began to pour

together. I walked Julie's block, raining

kneeling my face, passing jokers and old men carrying

groceries, none of whom cared about the ruins

scraping right behind my sternum. Returning to the

apartment, I saw Marco's face in every

shaped dark hair, the set of shoulders, the way he'd

once waited for me under umbrellas. I tried to

shake off the memories, focusing on the brass

key turning in the strange lock, the squeaks in

Julie's hallway I'd never notice before. That

night, I tried to sleep again on her couch,

listening to the city's russus hum. I replayed

a final beat and I'll kitchen the curve of Marco

shoulder as he crumpled, his foreshaded by panic

and gil, my own flight at the door. I found

no comfort, only the ache of absence where

trust had once lived impermeable between us.

I'm warning, the loneliness had acquired a kind

of substance or weight pressing and every

time I checked my phone. Over night, Marco's

message shifted he begged for a chance to talk,

apologize and broken grandma, try to...

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Playing that thing's a garden out of hand. His

words alternated between desperation and sorrow, then

stepped into anger when I didn't respond. He

wrote asterisk he can't just disappear. We're

not done. Asterisk then, softer, asterisk

please. I need you. Asterisk each message

stung, but rather than drawing me back, the

hallowed me out further. Chewly came home in the

evening, arms full of take-out and easy for

giving presents. She gave me space but also fed

me, handed me a glass of cheap wine, sculled

mindlessly through terrible TV together as a

press num laughter from somewhere inside. But

nothing in her warmth could fix what felt

flash and unfixable. When I close my eyes, I could

see Marcos face in the amber kitchen light, how

every protest, every lie I tried to stitch up a

wound he had already sliced too deep. The next

afternoon, a cost of my absence arrived all at once.

A message from my boss, asterisk mister

weekly report. Everything okay? Asterisk

my work laptop still sat on our coffee table,

surrounded by scripts and sticky notes. Panicked

twitched in my limbs. I rehearse it doesn't

have truce, then responded. Asterisk family

emergency, sorry we'll send back tomorrow. Asterisk

Julie offered to drive me back to the apartment to pick

up my things, but I refused. I couldn't bear the

idea of walking back in and seeing Marcos

shape outlined by the window or worse, seeing all my

things entouched, evidence of how instantly we'd

come unstitched. Instead, I asked her to text

him, I couldn't bring myself to use his name. Please

put my work laptop and backpack in the entry. I'll

come by in the morning. No, I don't want to see

you. No, I'm not ready to talk. Julie press

her hand, her fist troubled, but she squeezed my arm

and promised to come with me if I wanted. You don't

have to go alone, she said, voice grave. I told

her I'd be fine. I wasn't sure, but I didn't want

to pull her further into my disaster. That night,

Marcos' flood of messages began to worsen. At first,

more apologies than confusion than no completing. Asterisk

you left too fast. I need to explain. I can't sleep.

Can we talk, please? Asterisk then, ten minutes

later, Asterisk, I don't even know what to do right

now. I'm lost. Don't you care? Asterisk then, a

flurry of miss calls, all ignored. When I checked

social media, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. No sign

of Sierra, no new tags, just a cast photo from closing

night. Marcos was in the middle, arms around both

Adam and Sierra, all three smiling, but I saw the

stiffness in Sierra's shoulder, the carefully posed

space between her and Marcos. I wondered whether anyone

else saw the crack, or if all cracks always looked

invisible to anyone but the people sounding on them.

I went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face,

and tried to prepare for the coming morning, the

nerves that already raised welts along my chest, the

knowledge that stepping-foot inside our apartment

would reopen every bruise. When I woke,

gorilla drifted through the blinds. I dressed in

cold silence and breeze myself as Julie drove me across

town, navigating side street slick with drizzle,

every block drawing me closer to that silent theatre

that had become my life. Outside our building,

I paused, letting Julie pull me into a hug.

I'll wait in the car, she said, handing over my

spare keys. Text when you're done, okay?

I pulled my coat tighter, backpacks slin over my

shoulder, suitcase trailing after me. The entry

smelled the same old dust, faded lilies from some

neighbor's memorial months later. On shaky legs, I

climbed the stairs and stopped outside our door hot

wild throughout thick with dread. There, right where

I'd asked, sat my work laptop, charge a coil beside

it. My favourite mug balanced in a paper bag on top

as if Marcos wanted to apologise with a token of

familiarity. The door itself was closed, silent no

sign of Marcos inside, but the air seemed thick

with the memory of our final scene. I grabbed my

things, jammed the mug into my coat pocket, unturned.

I'm willing to pause a breath enough away any

longer than I had to. Back in Julie's car, I let my

head fold to the window, watched the city slip past,

feeling the ache of having everything I'd once

called home reduced to a collection of objects in a

backpack. Julie squeezed my hand on the drive,

neither of us speaking, the weight of what I'd

lost making the air heavy. I sent the work report,

pretended to care about the spreadsheet, let the

iris advance. But every so often, I checked my phone

half expecting even now something like a miracle. An

apology good enough to heal a wound, a reason that

made Dibitreo understandable. But Marcos sent

nothing for those few iris. Even the silence stabbed.

I remembered the box in our closet, filled with

photos in the Mentos match from road trips, splinted

paddle from a canoe, the first playable marker I'd

ever want to lead in. For a breath, I longed for that

comfort, but then my throat seized up, remembering how

much of it now felt counterfeit. That evening, just as

Julie started dinner, my phone vibrated again. This

time, it was a number I didn't recognize.

Asterisk, I know you don't want to talk, but I'm

so sorry. I'm not asking for you to come back.

You deserve better than what I did. I wish I

couldn't do it. Tell Julie not to worry about me.

I'll sleep elsewhere tonight. Asterisk. It was too

little, too late to sliver of decency after all his

frantic pleas. After all the ways he tried to

call me back without ever really making it right.

I set my phone to do not disturb, poured myself

another glass of wine, and watched as dusk

settled over the city, Portland's light flickering

short distances, lighting up nothing beyond a few

tantalizing feet. The tension eased out of me

and unpredictable, uneven pulses grieve mingling

with numbness, anger cloud in over a sorrow,

relief jagged as a winter branch. I realized I'd

spent so many nights willing myself not to see

what was right in front of me, and now my vision

was clear to clear a sharp enough to cut skin.

Julie taught me through another night offering

cookies and mindless distraction, but sleep was still

evasive. I stared at the ceiling, arms crossed,

wishing for emptiness. I morning I was so

run out, I barely noticed the ache in my jaw the

way I clenched my teeth all night. The next

morning brought a fresh cascade of anxieties.

My mother called, demanding to know why Makka

sounded so upset and abrupt on the phone

last time she called. Did I know something was

wrong? She went on about how much work I must

have, how relationships aren't easy, how people

change and grow. I answered her softly, telling her

I was fine, that Makka needed space, that things

were complicated right now. She started to press,

but I stared her away, unwilling to lay the truth

at her feet just yet. Meanwhile, texts from

mutual friends started landing, not to try

questions, just test and check ins.

Astros K haven't seen you post a bit.

Everything good? Astros Gora, Astros Marcos

are just staying at Julie's. Want to hang out

sometime? Astros, their phrasing was cautious

like they saw me on a ledge and were afraid

a strong word might send me topping. The very

reality of being separated from Makka became

more suffocating as the day went by. With every

little reminder, every mist habit, the cost of

this fracture multiplied a shared bills, the apartment

lease, the groceries, I'd never eat, the plans

we'd made for the next vacation, the no-endred

of what would happen to our stupid catch-shape

soap-to-spenser and that old green couch would

fought so hard to fit through the entryway.

I tried to call the leasing office, stumbling

through the question of whether I could

sublet what it would take to extricate

myself from the list of names. The woman

on the other end sounded practiced and

personal, and told me, you'll need

signatures from both parties to change

anything official. The simple plan is of those

words done. Julie brought home a fresh

stack of groceries where to support heavy

and every string bag. She made pasta, cracked

jokes about old sitcoms, and let me fall

silent when I couldn't muster any reply.

I chipped at dinner, serring at my hands as

if they belonged to someone else. As dusk

fell, I watched the light flicker across the

river, feeling the prickle of not-blowning

wherever I sat. My head pounded with

exhaustion from three nights without rest.

I sculled mindlessly through photos on my

phone memories I'd once treasured now

heavy stones in my palm. Then, just after

nine, a knock came at Julie's door-soft

uncertain, instantly tightening every

muscle in my spine. For a fevered moment,

I was sure it was Marco come to plead one last

time to try to talk his way back into my

life. Julie rose first, whispering,

she used the door open, exchanged a few

quick words with someone unseen, then

returned, relief in her face, the neighbor

had delivered him a saliva package, nothing

more. But my nerves wouldn't settle. I

realized how tightly I'd been waned, how much

of me expected the crisis to slide back and

through any door, any silence. I sat on the

edge of the couch, knuckles pressed to my

lips, a shivering static filling my head. It

was as though every eye or away from Marco

made to break more real, less fixable. I

wandered the apartment, desperate for calm,

yearning and fearing a further confrontation.

My body felt brace for impact with every

step. Quite again, I sat at Julie's desk,

staring down a hundred and answer texts from

Marco, most already deleted. The last one,

Sullen read, waited at the top.

Astros could give you as much space as you need.

Astros, the black words on the grey

bubble as final as anything he'd ever said. I

scrolled through photos, shuffling even old

messages from Julie and my mom from before

all of this, searching for solid ground. My

gaze landed in the wedding photo I'd used as a

homescreen a frozen moment in the roses

outside City Hall, Marco's hand in mine,

neither of us knowing. I pressed my thumb to

the image until it blew, then, hard pounding

changed it to a picture of the river instead.

Julie watched me from the armchair, her eyes

gentle, no questions. I swallowed twice,

brace myself, and dug my wedding ring from

the pocket of my coat where I shoved it days

ago in that final, shuddering retreat. I

stood and crossed to the window, my hand

closing around the cold, to move gold. My

thumb tracing the little notch Marco had

made one night drumming it on our nightstand.

The city outside swirled with evening buses

groaning, rain flickering in headlights,

Portland humming along, everyone else's

lives as intact as ever. At that window, I

let myself cry not the choking silent tears

from before, but a real, wracking kind of

grief, more to something final, irreversible.

Julie watched, then, wordlessly, set a box

of tissues on the silver side me and stepped away.

I let every muscle and clench, my breath heaving

until I could taste salt at the back of my throat.

When the tears edged, I stood tall

of shoulder squaring. I pressed the wedding ring

into my palm, squeezing until my fingers

hurt, and finally opened my hand above the

kitchen's ink. For a moment, I let the gold

glint in the last of the light, saw every

compromise and promise flicker in its curve. I

said the wedding ring quietly on the sill,

stepped back, and laughed at gleaming there,

and touched. The night pressed in, cool on

silent, the kitchen humming softly behind me.

I watched the city lights pulse in the

rain street glass and understood for the first

time that the silence was my own. And

that is the end. Thank you for listening,

and I will see you in the next one.

Thank you for listening, and I will see you in the next one.

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