His Emotional and Physical Affair With Riley Destroyed Our Marriage

0:00The first thing that hit me, opening the door that Thursday, was the strange stillness. I loft usually hummed after six-mott-making dinner, Richard's old record plane up of the power of the dishwasher, the rich green of our plant jungle gleaming with city twilight. But the only light was a dull flicker from the entry, the air inside colder than it should have been. I paused, groceries pressed in my hip, and looked to the empty kitchen island. Mox coat hung over the back of a chair-dart blue wool, well worn at the cuffs, with a strike herimal thread clinging to the shoulder. There was a mug by the sink, licked it with a half-moon of cinnamon, not Mox's usual double-shot black. I inhaled, and for a second, a powdery, floral scent caught me off-guard. Not the pining note of his deodorant, not my own citrus solution, but something softer. Vanilla clinging to silk. My phone buzzed. Mox named blinked up her message. Last minute were cuddle. Sorry babe, three-dawaited up. The heart was his automatic punctuation cheerful, big apologetic. I set the groceries down, palm my phone, and stared out at the sprawl of my neapolist

1:03through our windows, clashed trembling faintly from a passing bus. For the next hour, I tried to lose myself in client revisions. Word dogs, color palettes, campaign ideas that felt as stale as the leftover kale salad enabled for dinner. My mind kept giving back to the apartment at sudden emptiness, and that half-finished cup, lipstick rimmed. I had never worn lipstick in the eight-year-old's-aid-known mark, not even for work events. At 9.40, Mark called. His voice was bright, too bright, flooding the connection with nervous little chuggles. Hey, sorry they will not let me escape. City dreams never sleep, I guess. You sound wired. He laughed again. I'm just running on too much caffeine, hand, sorry. There was a muffled sound of people talking, laughed and not quite matching his. Can I call you after? I hesitated listening to the background noise. Yeah, don't stay out too late. Promise. Another chuckle, then silence. Mark came home a little after midnight, letting himself in unquite feet. I was still up, sketching at the kitchen-barrer, pretending not to wait for him.

2:04He poked his head around the doorway, hair ruffled and in even tuff, totally listened, but not entide. His cheeks were pink, not from cold. You're up, he said, sounding like he wanted to be surprised. Couldn't sleep. He nudged my shoulders, he passed, headed for the show a habit he picked up only recently, wearing so late. I heard water drumming behind the bathrooms frosted glass, sharp and I'm broken, while I watched the ghostly reflection of downtown shimmer off our window. At that moment, it felt smaller and more exposed in our home than I had in years. I told myself it was nothing a work huddle, a late drink, a random quirk of an unfamiliar day. But that powdery fragrance lingered between a mug and Mark's coat. I tried and failed to laugh at myself. Maybe Mark's new intensity was a good thing. His career was finally going out of the old crater, after all, and I promised myself I wouldn't be the jealous spouse. Abyssin comes with sacrifices. I told friends exactly that. Still, as I crawled into the wide, chilly bed alone and listened to the water shut off, the feeling didn't budge. Something that isn't visible a hairline fracture, faint glimmer of ronness can still take

3:05up all the space in a room. I drifted under dark mini-apples, negotiating my own anise. Most mornings start the same. Mark brings me a mug of overmilk tea, pressing it to my hand like an offering even when I'm buried under a project. I'll often as the kind of place people photograph for Instagram. Ninety-year-old Brooke, 12-foot ceilings, strings of drifted festival life straight around our paint splattered kitchen. Nearly every shelf is growing with plants' pathos, snake plants, succulents that thrive despite negligence. Our living room winder frames a wedge of cidoscape, all sharp lines and street-like glow. Mark, who hover somewhere in his mid-30s, is a big presence, but not in the chest thumping, demanding way. He's lanky, all restless energy and rye expressions, with sandy hair that coals under his ears and blue grey eyes that dance when he's in a teasing mood. He falls himself onto the couch in impossible poses when we watch old movies, licks tucked under, one arm behind his head. His laugh can fill the whole place within seconds. I'm quieter. Sometimes he calls me L for the way I stare out the window, thinking too long before speaking. I'm somewhere just south of 35, comfortably odd, with shoulder length over in hair and

4:07blunt bangs that I trim myself sometimes disaster-se. I love tights and faded, oversized denim, live for patterns, and have a paper calendar filled with collocoded sticky notes. But I never wore lipstick, not even for my old agency job before freelancing took over. Eight years ago, Mark and I met at a non-profit mixer of room full of civic-minded introverts clutching craft beer and blues band stickers. He cycled over, made a dried joke about the world's slowest game settlers of Catan, and by the end of the night we trailed each other through three city parks, arguing about street murals and upnames. Minneapolis can be a cold city literal and otherwise but somehow, with Mark, it melted into a jumble of possibility. We collected people as easily as we collect plants. Most of our friends come from the scene, artists, architects, planners, and the odd musician. Mina, with her ride of curls and infectious laugh, is my closest anchor. Jamal Mark's old debate buddies built like a linebacker but geeks out of her front pairings. Riley, a new friend, recently joined, drifted in with Mark's new colleagues. Even at gatherings, we never seen to close ranks, we'd always welcome anyone willing

5:10to put up with our nonsense. Our relationships foundation is crappy and affectionate. Even after a period of real turbulence, Mark's failed attempt as a VickTech startup two years back, when money got tight and pride even tighter we forged something stronger. We sat on the cold kitchen floor, eating take-up fries, talking through fear and disappointment until it fell away. Mark is sometimes frustrating in his relentless optimism. He finds the upside in anything, even my small panics. I cherish that most days. But lately, we've lived like two busy satellites orbiting the same world but rarely in the same place. Mark's job took off he joined the city's master plan team, which meant nights filled with cocktail napkins catches, heated tomb coals, and something like ambition sharpening behind his eyes. He stopped talking about surviving and started talking about impact, legacy, catalyzing. I'd sure to him on mostly. I wanted this for him, even when it meant shrinking our universal little. My own work branding and social campaigns for non-profits and indie businesses were steady, but not easy. I felt the creative burn out more lately, pushing myself to deliver a while moments in every

6:11pitch. Worm, with a sneaking suspicion that my best work was already behind me. Weekends, once full spontaneous road trips with bikes wedged in the trunk and coals coffees in hand, became afterthoughts. Fans would be me, then quite the replaced by Mark's calls to duty. The price of success, I told myself. We're lucky. I was happy. Or I tried to convince myself of that, repeating a superstition don't jinx the piece. The first of Mark's community game nights started in Noccurus. We talked forever about being the house where people gather cards, snacks, craft beer, blurry late-night conversation. This was Mark's idea, blend his new city planning crowd with our old crew, break up the tension of work. He forced invitation into my hands every Thursday. To show up, you'll like these folks' hand, they're weird in a good way. The energy was different. Mark laid up in a way that felt new, joking would rookies about secret tunnels under a city hold and breaking out his dad jokes awesome off of the architects. He circled the room like a host on a talk show, always two steps ahead, but he was distracted too. When I joined a conversation, Mark would touch my arm be met me, but his gaze would flick

7:15away as a scanning for someone else. The first game night, he was mixing up stories at one point, referencing how he and Sam ended up at Neon Tiger, when earlier he told me he got drinks alone Monday. He brushed off. My brains fried, sorry, too many late nights. I felt out of place in my own home, more observant and participant. Mark had always been skilled at anchoring me, drawing me into the rhythm of any gathering, but now, conversations had a current I couldn't catch. I chalked it up to the neonus of the crev urban planners and sensible sweaters, the talk of zoning and transportation at dising speed. Riley was there at two tall lean, with a black cropped undercut and keen, mischievous brown eyes. Wiley wore a black leather jacket and thick green glasses, a delicate tattoo winding up one forearm. Wiley always seemed to be in some private joke with Mark, the heads bent close, laughed bubbling just under their breath. When Riley nudged Mark with a slide, don't let them see your ganchard, everyone else just laughed along, but I was left fumbling for context. I leaned against the fridge, clutching my drink, feeding the sharp edges of exclusion prick at my skin. Mark glanced over and shot me a grin, but it slipped, replaced by something cagey.

8:18Later, when everyone fills it out, Mark patted my shoulder and said, you're a good sport, hand, next time it'll be easier. I felt like a tourist, I muttered. He kissed my cheek. Just give it a few tries, they'll warm up. That night I stared at the ceiling pushing down the dolly in my chest. You're being ridiculous, I told myself. Mark has just energized again. You've waded that for him. You've both been spinning in your own worlds. Isn't this what couples are supposed to want growth? I blamed my recent slumped the lack of inspiration, the nagging sense that I'm fading out of my own passions. At the next game night, I'd add to make it work. I wore my silliest socks, brought up my famous cardamom cookies, laughed harder than I felt. But I still caught those slips, Mark's distracted glance, rallies easy dominance of the conversation, the flush of inside knowledge I wasn't letting on. Two weeks later, I ran into Mina's sonnies, our coffee shop fall back, the crammed in place with vintage travel posters and a communal table that always smells of orange peels and spice. Mina's with a short, broad shouldered, half her hair a froth of honeyd curls, the other

9:19half-bos neatly with a septum ring she twos when she's anxious. She wears paint splotad overalls even on her days off. She waved me over, folding her slim laptop. Hey stranger, was Mark, she asked, I'm my two-diggle cups. Home he's working, I said, and regretted how shop it came out. City planning crisis, oh that's the claim. Mina's expression turned sly. I saw him Tuesday night at River and Rye, looked deep in conversation, he said he was working from home. I hesitated blinking. You're sure? Maybe it was someone who looks like him, he's been fried lately. No mistaking that neon bomber he wears plus, he waved. She let it go, sensing my discomfort, and we changed the subject. But the image worn into my heath mark outlaid was someone just not me. That evening, as Mark sprawled on the couch, phone in hand, I heard a ping. A notification flash, the briefest of glances, a string of text from an unsafe number, just two initials are out the curve of Mark's thumb as he locked the screen was oddly self-conscious. I picked up our plates trying to sound casual. Your new city friends blowing up her phone?

10:20He looked up, caught off guard. Uh oh, just project soft too many moving pieces. His smile was quick practice. I should get an old skull nook here, freedom from memes. I played along, but a cold dread settled in my stomach. He'd always left his phone face up, casual as a drop magazine. Now he never let it out of his reach, always face down, always locked. Resentments flicker barely there, but real. In the weeks that followed, Mark started canceling our plans. Friday pizza at Geno's Sunday sketch walks at the sculpture garden gone, rebased by city emergencies, community forums he forgot to put on the calendar. I tried to keep my frustration in check, but every excuse added another loose thread to tug at. On the occasions he was home, he was distracted, hunched over his laptop, face pale blue with screen glow. This grant app is going to kill me, he'd matter rubbing the back of his neck. Almost over, I promise. One rainy night, we had dinner with our old crowdman at Jamal, and Lee, a jewelry designer who wore rings on every finger. Mark sat at the edge, barely eating, responding in mono syllables, phone vibrating every few minutes.

11:24No one called him out directly, but when Mina asked about Saturday's art crawl, Mark clanced around like they'd asked him to explain new physics. I'll try, he said. Not sure about work. Later, I found a crumple receipt in the laundry tucked into hoodie pocket two drinks of briefly, river and rye. Thursday. The same day of the emergency meeting. I confronted him lightly holding up the receipt like a joke. He splurging on snacks without me. He hesitated, eyes starting, then offered a half smile. Team online night, Devin peer pressured me, I forgot to mention, sorry, Han. I tried to read his expression, searching for a whiff of an ease. He kissed my forehead, ducking away. Next time, please bring me, any better stories for the group chat. Aim nights faded out, replaced by Mark, solo networking, or city planning meetups. Sometimes I'd see his photo tag in a co-worker's story, blurry and half-shadowed, standing beside Rylee, both mid-laught, drinks in hand. The captions always danced around inside jokes of hash-treentame, working hard or hardly working. I started searching for meaning in every emoji, every offhand post.

12:26He became obsessive about his phone, not just hiding it, but guarding it. I told myself he was just dressed up chasing new career-moment and God knows I'd done the same when client pitches devout my waking hours. But I couldn't shake the feeling of being on the outside, a stranger in my own narrative. One night, Mina and I met at our spot, the back patio of Jinx, where Moss creeps up the brickwork and fairy lights hang from ancient opines. She tapped my ankle with her boot under the table. He okay, Mark's gun radio silent in the group text lately, Jamal's worded out, you two having drama. I hesitated picking at my sleeve. He's just focused, I don't know. Han, if you need to talk. I waived her off, embarrassed by my own uncertainty. I'm fine, he's just under pressure, it'll blow over. At night, I was digging through our digital photo album for inspiration, I stumbled on a message notificationer, I'll, again, just a phone number with an emoji. Gone by the time I opened his phone. I chatted myself for snooping, for being the suspicious partner I never wanted to become. At a gallery, hoping to follow in a week some new media thing, a rude essence surfaces on looping animations I found myself on the periphery, nursing a cheap wine, watching

13:30Mark and Riley chat in a tunnel of coloured light. Riley is impossible to ignore one of those people who's called conceals a sharpness. The laugh is short, almost wicked, and they move through space with a feline, muse confidence, rip black jeans, sprueds with silver hardware, and always that same search will let the jacket. I approached and caught the tail end of Riley's joke, and then Mark started on his secret project again, you should have seen Jamal's face. Riley flicked their eyes to mind and went quiet, teeth worrying the inside of their cheek. What secret project? I asked trying to make it sound like a tease. Mark's grin flickered, then snapped back into place. Just soaning talk, sitting nerd stuff. He squeezed Riley's shoulder, tone suddenly too bright. No secrets here. Devon the one with impossibly neat hair and a wardrobe of button-downs drifted over, changed the subject, and a moment evaporated. But later that night, as I circled the lobby looking for my coat, I overheard Mark on his phone just outside the restroom. His voice was nearly a whisper, tone-urgent. I'll call you back, not now, y'all later. I waited a minute, hot beating a frantic rhythm, then rounded the corner as he slipped

14:32the phone into his back pocket. Hey, how I'm ready to head home? His smile was forceful, his grasp on my hand too furrowed, as if ensuring I couldn't slip away if I tried. The weight of uncertainty pressed on me, I started chasing clues, testing the boundaries of our understanding. On Sunday afternoon, I'd scroll through Mark's new followers on social media city planners from Chicago, a comic artist, a handful of them familiar faces with mutual friends in Mark's new team. Their posts were loaded with photos from rooftops, cryptic mentions of Project 2M or Urban Adventure, flashes of Mark in the background, be as clinking, Riley's eye roll emoji in the comments. I started looking for patterns, for some roadmap that would put all these stray pieces in order and give me back a version of my life that made sense. Was I just upgrowing this stage, jealous of Mark's sudden energy, or was there something shifting beneath our feet? I tried to shake it off. What new plants, deep clean the closet, read old messages Mark and I had left for each other on blank notebooks around the house, notes about snack orders for each other, or don't forget your magic. Every signal from the past whisper that the present should still be go, that people

15:33don't just turn into strangers, not overnight. Then, almost as if on cue, Mark surprised me with a weekend getaway. He burst into the kitchen one Friday craning, dropping keys on the counter. Pack a bag, hand, we're going north, no screens, no plans, justice and bad waifah. I stared at him, measuring his excitement. This cheeks were returning to their old golden glow, his eyes starting with a kinetic opa'd mist. Maybe I was just imagining everything. The trip was simple magic. We wandered lakeside trails and beat up sneakers, Mark stopping at every weird treat to pour in tapnot shaped like faces. We gorged on greasy, dine, a breakfast and took silly selfies beside obliard art. Evening's found us tucked under a stiriff stock wheel, feet tangled, listening to indie albums from our college days. The distance that had warmed into our routine seemed to recede. We could laugh again at nothing at everything. Mark apologized for being a bear, blamed the coming city budget rap for nuking his schedule, and promised to be present. I miss us, he was spread in the dark. I let myself breathe again, savoring the return of intimacy, promising not to overthink.

16:36In the silence of our rented cabin, I pressed my lips to the soft skin at the back of Mark's neck and believed, wholeheartedly, that we be okay. But when we unpacked at home, I found the notebook. Our bags have merged, sip is comingling as always. I was sorting out our passports when something waged in the falls of Mark's stuff or caught my attention. A thin black spiral notebook has covered customised with neon green city stickers, probably from Riley's craft supply stash. I flipped it open, thinking it was one of Mark's many sketchbooks, but the first page hit me, a leaping, precise script. You're the only person I can really talk to. Thank you for last night, for listening, for being you. No signature, but a little hand-drawn skyline, a line of hearts. The words don't let this city swallow you at the bottom. My breath caught in my throat. Mark called from the bedroom, you see my socks. I snapped the notebook shut, stashed it back between sweatshirts, handshaking. I could not ignore it. This notebook was different personal, gentle, with a warmth I never expected from Riley's public persona. I played the scene over and over a Mark and Riley late nights, inside jokes, the notes intimacy.

17:37Had I just let myself be placated? Was I desperate enough for things to be normal that I'd disregarded what was right in front of me? I began to keep quite a truck of Mark's schedule. I faltered through texts, receipts, even scribbled dates from the colonners of Mark's project notebooks. I made a spreadsheet, something I never do, but acquired in my nerve's dates of networking drinks, game nights, many conferences that Mark's ever had long. The patterns began to emerge, some dates were double booked. Others lined up a little too closely with Riley's sociable, peppermint cocktails on Tuesday, just a hoodiesleeve and a fray and a late nightbrains from Takedown, the hash offeros. I'm sure how else to get a different line of sight, I reached out to Devon, one of the new crew, friendly but rigid, always wearing crush shirts and grey sneakers, his light brown hair perpetually ruffled as if he's just run a hand through it in irritation. I faked casual. Hey, I'm curious what Mark's been looking on. I miss our old game nights. Is there anything you need to design ideas on? I could pitch in if he's too buried. Devon's reply was hesitant, seeming to weigh each word. Mark and Riley are up attached at the hip these days. Sorry game night fell apart.

18:38Guess everyone caught the overtime flu, you know? He sent a thumbs up, then went silent for the rest of the week. Mark started coming home later and later. He'd stop at the entry, toss his coat mechanically onto the hook, shoot me a brief, tight smile, and go straight to the bathroom to shower, barely pausing to wave. Not a word about his day. Every time I tried to broach anything more significant, he would steer the conversation back to meals, errands, the weather, or ask about my deadlines. Streaming apps on our shared TV started prompting for a new password. It's just a security stuff. Mark insisted, forced too breezy as he airtight yet another combination on the remote. I read something about hackers in our email, but he never shared the new password, even though our standing rule was to keep a notebook for all account logons in case one of us got locked out. A call came on those a, distorted by the loft's echo, when Mark had left his phone in the kitchen while stepping out on an errand. I picked up on autopilot. Mark, it's me, sorry, I... The voice on the other end was soft, hesitant, unmistakably Riley's. I recognised the quick inhale, the slightly neasier quality that always marked Riley's

19:39rift mid conversation. Hello, Mark? Ah, Metana. The silence that Polo was prickly, then brief. Oh, sorry, sorry, wrong number. Riley hung up. I put the phone back and stared at the screen, heart thundering. The call locked Mark for Riley's number, the same that had flashed initials on Mark's lockscreen. Even now, there were moments I doubted my own instincts what if Mark and Riley were just friends, close and intense and away my own boundaries wouldn't allow. What if I was inventing a story out of nothing, desperate to avoid looking at my own misery? I called me now, who hadn't pressed for event in weeks but who always managed to make space for the heavy silences. We met again at our patio haunt, the city flaring red and gold-undustering lights. I couldn't say the words directly. Instead, a ton of questions, would you tell me if you thought Mark was hiding something from me, have you heard anything? Minus face fell and she twisted her ring heart. I heard a rumor that a happy hour-radi was there with Mark and someone said something like, don't worry, he keeps secret from everyone. I thought it was just city gossip, pan, I'm sorry, I didn't want to hurt you.

20:40My world wobbled. Being outside voices had picked up on something I'd been living inside for months. That night, I crawled into bed, not bothering to wait for Mark. I clutched my phone to my chest, hot pounding, the echo of meaners got mingling with my own. For the first time, I loved myself to fully consider that I might not know the person sleeping beside me for who I was without him. Still, I kept trying to assemble the pieces to make some sense of the last months. If there was any hope of pulling this relationship back from the edge, I needed to know where the bottom truly lay. The next week, I found myself obsessively cataloging unpredictable things, sent traces in the air, the half-life-affolded laundry, the way Mark adjusted the thermostat when he got home subtle details I'd never considered significant. I'd always taken comfort in the ways we'd testellated into each other's habits, how he'd refill my water glass automatically, how I'd jerk his pants needed a tough love while pruning their yellowing leaves. Now I watched everything. Which mug did he use? Did he turn his phone away if I sat beside him? Was the playlist his usual funky jazz or something curated by Riley I recognised their taste, electronic with a pulsing edge from their IG stories?

21:42I was jumpy to aware of every footstep in the hall, every door closing below us. The world felt grainy or rougher. That Saturday, Mark announced he had a mid-morning walk and talk with his lead from public works. One brunch after, he offered over his shoulder, already tugging a shirt from his closet. I hopped off the couch, digging in. Sure, but you'll be back by noon? He flustered practice grin, but his movements were clipped. You know City Meeting's I'll text you. After he left, I fidgeted, refolded towels, then perched at the window-watching for his head bobbing into the street. Instead, Mark emerged with Riley at his elbow, both in mashing windbrickers, the energy between them charged enough to catch even at a distance. They crossed the avenue, talking, Riley's hand-brushing Mark saw a mid-story. I ducked back, pulsed roaring in my ears as if I'd just uncovered a secret I had no right to witness. Doubt tangled with shame I was spying now, the jealous ball-strip made flesh. But Mark had lied. He hadn't mentioned Riley. If it was work, why shade the facts? The absence stretched longer than it should have.

22:43At 1215, I texted trying to some breezy, brunch or lunch. Should I start the scramble? He replied only at 1230, sorry, still talking through grant plans. Reynchek. Riley says hi. I stared at the message, a lost line gleaming with something that felt calculated, or maybe I'd just grown suspicious of everything. Did Riley know they were included or had Mark volunteered the greeting? I didn't respond. By late afternoon, Mark returned when blown and sloppy with apologies. The Renlate city stuff always does. He dropped onto the couch, kicked off his shoes, and pressed his head back as if profoundly exhausted. What did you and Riley talk about? I asked, watching him for the telltale squint he got once getting the truth. Budget headaches, Riley's taking on new scope, I'm entering their learning cosnuts you'd have thoughts for them, actually. His voice was even almost forced in its doneness, but his fingers drummed his thigh. I made a mental note, offered design ideas to Riley, see their reaction. Part of me recalled from the pettiness of tactical friendship, but another part of the raw, humiliated part was desperate for any crack in the wall.

23:46Later that evening, when we went for a rare walk to the river, I tried to breach the distance of pride. Mark, are we okay? The honesty of the question surprised us both. He smiled a little too easily. Are you bored with me already? He said, nudging my arm. I'm serious, you're far away lately, with work, with Riley, with everyone. I kept my tone soft, not wanting to sound like an accuser. Mark exhaled, eyes fixed on the rippling grey of the water. I know, I've just been fried. This project, it feels big, like my shot to get things right, you know? He was silent, then added, Riley works late, so I do too, he'd get along with him if you let yourself hand. It was both invitation and rebeach. I bit my cheek and nodded, watching our city fracture in the river's reflection light stretch thin over restless water. When we returned, Mark seemed to try, making dinner with more flourish than usual, playfully tossing garlic at the pan with sage shift rama. We ate at the counter, knees touching. For an hour, old rhythms almost returned. I laughed at his puns, stalled tomato slices off his cutting board, and for flicker things

24:46felt possible again. But later, as I picked up the plates, I caught a messaging under the table quick fingers, a half concealed smile. I opened my mouth to ask, then close it. I was tired of being the suspicious party, the one who kept moving the goalposts. Yet as I loaded the dishwasher, I heard the echo you'd get along with them. My inclusion felt, suddenly, conditional, like a test I hadn't studied for. Monday brought more peculiarities. Mark called me mid afternoon, which used to be normal when we swapped means of commissary to it over deadlines. He sounded relieved when I answered, his tone conspiratorial. Is the Wi-Fi weird day I keep dropping off soon? I frowned. No, all good here. In the background, I heard a voice maybe Riley, low and murmured. Never mind, Mark said quickly. I'll tie that to my hot spot. Later, Riley posted a photo to their stories, a mug on our distinct kitchen table, the crack in the varnish a mistakeable beneath the rim. The photo had no caption, just a shrug emergency and hash monday fuel. So they'd been here. That part wasn't hidden.

25:47But why was that the last to know? I watched the clock all evening, waiting for that moment Mark's return, his non-jolante hat, trough ximess, or anything exciting today, hit by the ton the door, finally opened. After nine, I was cold up in bed, but gun right on my stomach, staring at shadows on the ceiling. He shuffled quietly, shard, left his phone face out on the dresser. In the morning, he gassed my forehead. Love you, he said, and headed out, sent of unfamiliar cologne following in his wake. Not quite his, not quite anyone else's. A blend that reminded me of being on the outside of an inside joke. Two days later, Devon texted about a design question, and I took my chance, hope you, Riley, and Mark aren't buried alive under that ground. Looked like a long Monday. Immediately, I regretted the transparency. Devon replied quickly, I'm mostly out, Mark and Relier. Like a team within a team lately, they've got ideas 24-slash 7, sometimes they just get out of the way, you know. I stared at my screen, feeling both childish and vindicated. That Thursday, I got to Mark's office unexpectedly, he'd left his laptop charger at home, and I was in a neighborhood after a client meeting.

26:49The glass wall suite was mostly empty, the dim hum of H-track blending with the faint tap of rain on windows. Riley was there, popped against the conference table, laptop opened, Mark's bomber jacket slung over their chair. They jumped a little when I walked in. Hey, I said, forcing cheer, charger delivery, your hero arrives. Mark looks stricken for half a second, then all some beam. You're the best, seriously. I passed the charger, nodding it Riley. He guys living here now. Riley grinned, flashing that neat row of teeth. We were just troubleshooting city carers. I was about to steal your boyfriend for dinner, he says you might join. The jikster position familiar bowler attempted inclusion bounced off me. I have a deadline, sorry, but thanks. The awkwardness thickened. For a moment, Riley studied me with a two-knowing glance as if trying to measure my intent. Then they shrugged, pivoting back to the laptop with a cryptic, no rest for the wicked. When I left, my heart was ledden. I'd always prided myself on never being jealous, never threatened by Mark's friends his deep desire for connection was part of why I loved him.

27:49But now the lines were so blurred I couldn't parse what belonged to us, what was just other. Back at home, Mark texted at 8, going to grab food with Riley, promised not to be late. Want me to bring dessert? I replied it might be asleep. Not quietly. He came home at 11, found me awake, faced sticky with dry tears I pretended were from reading too long. He didn't ask. He peeled off his shoes, made a little too much nose fluffing up the comforter, then curled on the far edge of the bed, breathing quietly as if afraid to stir me. I stared at the ceiling, gripping a corner of the blanket. I couldn't decide which was worse the things I suspected, or the things I was beginning to accept. The next day, I let her arrive while Mark was at work a glossy envelope addressed to both of us for some city-volunteer gale of undraising. I'd almost tossed it, but, flipping through the RSVP list, I knew Dastrally's name pencil beside Mark's as a prospective guest. Not coworker. Eased. I hadn't been invited, but Mark had filled the seat. My body pulsed with a heart sick anger. Yet even then, I told myself, maybe it was practical, not personal.

28:50Maybe they needed tickets purchased, heads filled. So many mebys. On Friday, I arranged to meet Riley alone. I framed it as a design consult offering to help with project branding, curious how the team was functioning. I picked a public spot, nervous as help or determined to get answers without Mark as a buffer. Riley arrived to cloud in a graphic T and the leather jacket had artfully must. Hannah, right? Mark said you might join the circus one of these days. I smiled, feigning nonchalance. I just like seeing what upsubs all his time. They laughed, honest enough to lower my god. He know how it goes with big ideas. Their eyes flaked over my shoulder, assessing exits or just weighing words. I press keeping it friendly. You and Mark seem tight. Is it just the project? Riley snorted, fiddling with the edge of their mark. He's got fission, you get stuff done, stay late, and suddenly you've shared more pizza than paychecks. I like him, but I don't steal him, if that's what you're worried about. There was a challenge in that smile. I felt exposed, seen through, but I couldn't tell if I was here in confessional warning.

29:51I just wish he'd bring work home in a way that includes me, you know. Riley told to their head. Don't be mad at him, it's been hard, the deadline, and we do lean on each other a lot. Their honesty wasn't exactly comfort. I ended a coffee quickly, nerve-shattered. I replayed the conversation for hours, questioning my own questions was I prying or seeking some impossible reassurance. Sunday was great, so he tapped in the windows, the city blurred behind foggy glass. Mark was home, unusually attentive, making elaborate grilled cheese, brushing my hips as we navigated the kitchen. Let's do something next weekend, just as he suggested Gaze hopeful. Like what? I asked for some more time than I meant. I got up at the drive-in, watched dumb movies, eat too much popcorn, he said nudging me until I managed to smile. His effort felt so pointed I almost believed it. We watched two films, Mark's broad against me, cracking jokes at every plot hole. I let myself enjoy the comfort then, when he was asleep, searched through his backpack. A folded napkin with Riley's sketchy hand-writing just a doodle, a city skyline morphing into an enormous heart.

30:52The innocuousness felt like another subtle taunt, not quite evidence, not quite innocent. Three days passed in a fog of displaced normalcy. Mark worked longer hours, where Riley's presence continued to carve wider holes in his schedule, and I tried to keep myself anchored in freelance pictures through my productivity-created. I was sleeping poorly, waking at odd hours to the hum of Mark's phone vibrating under his pillow. One night, his phone lit with a call, our al-flashing on the lockscreen at nearly 1am. Mark half a week, silenced it, muttering work, ignore it. Then rolled over, holding himself stifly away from me. Last week, after another mis-Roman date, I gathered courage and cold-meena, desperate for any slice of outside reality. Something feels wrong, I was sprue, fingers twisting in the phone-code like a lifeline. Have you heard anything? Weird about Mark and Riley? She hesitated. Honestly, Lee mentioned something, said Riley was cryptic about the main collaborator, but it's all second-hand. I thought you'd know if something was up. I'd admitted it to my worry, my fear of what I'd find. Minus sympathy was balm and kindling. Han, whatever this is, you can survive it, I know you.

31:56Her certainty felt better than my own. I pays, replay past months, lie in everything up every slip, every deflection, every night Mark asked for a trust but gave no reciprocation. Once I'd have confronted him call, now I found myself wanting proof something incontrovertible to keep from being gaslit by my own hope. Mark's old habit was to work through the worst of stress with creative project scenes, calloges, tiny guerrilla poetry slips and library stacks. But those had vanished. I missed those signs of sincerity, interior life that felt like ours. I walked the apartment one night, opening all project boxes, thinking if anything was hidden, it might be here. In a folder of scribble city map sketches, I found a ticket stub two seats for a chamber music show, dated on a night Mark claimed he'd been presenting at a neighborhood association. I loaked up the event, Riley had posted pictures from the show, handcuffed in a selfie next to someone just out of the frame, jacket sleeve half visible. I compared the pattern of Mark's jacket and match. My hands shook as a piece has began to lock into place. Still the rational voice in my head scolded, coincidence. A friend's night out.

32:57Not everything is betrayal. Yet nothing stopped the gathering sense that intimacy had migrated, that jerks and comfort and a hundred tiny choices have been rerouted elsewhere. The next morning, I kept silent. I needed to see for myself to ask questions whose answers might finally settle this gore weather in favor of my worst fears or some still and discovered benign truth. I waited for an opportunity and it came sooner than I expected. Mark came home unusually early backpacks slung over one shoulder cheeks when flushed from the cold. He seemed later almost relieved to see me. Hey, hand, want to get pizza all time sake. We walked under the city shivering neon, a brittle wind at our backs. At Genos, I fist for ordinary comfort, ordering his fever, to sausage mushroom extra pickle on the side. Mark offered stories funny moments from work, small neighborhood quirks. For one shining hour, we felt like our old selves. But when the check came, I noticed a slit, Mark signed, chatting about someone named Taylor from the office. But as the silver passed, he murmured, rightly usually tipped bigger got up my game. I stared at his face, watching how quickly color rose in his cheeks.

33:59You hang out a lot outside work. It sounds like, I said, feigning casual. He shrugged. We're on the same wavelength. Is that weird? I wanted to answer, but the words jammed up. Instead, I let the moment drift away, preserved for a dissection later. At home, I grabbed his jacket to hang it up and found another note in the pocket. In Riley's handwriting, Friday at 8, plan B of plan attacks, LNK. It wasn't a smoking gun. Maybe it was a calendar reminder, maybe it was a code for a city plan. But it felt clandestine unspoken, outside. I sat on our bed for a long time, not pressed between my palms trying to hold myself into some courageous confrontation. But my voice would have shaken, and I wanted evidence, not just accusation. And Mark Shard, I checked his planner. Sketches, coloswatches, work meetings and woven with the different pammer notes. Our late, confirmed drinks, a call are about maps. They don't forget Friday. Friday, always Friday. I was supposed to meet men at that Friday for drinks, but now I wanted to mark what would be with, on which version of the truth he'd tell. The ache of skepticism hardened into resolve.

35:01On Thursday, Mark stopped me in our living room as a packed-of-way receipts. Let's clear this weekend, just you and me, he said, searching my eyes. I nodded. I'd like that. I wanted it to be true. I wanted him to want it to be true, too. But as he settled on the catch to watch Netflix, he texted under the blanket halfway through the movie, is Facebook-lo with Secret Light. I watched him moving alert. My world was small, sudden, surgical and focused. The line where our fingertips met, but didn't entoy in the rhythm of his breathing when he looked away. I started to cat-a-log all the small betrayals, everyone announced her to a question he wouldn't let me ask. I'd beneath it all, a new edge of dread. If I put everything together, would I even recognize the outcome as my life? The next morning, I was up before the sun, tangled in the sheets, stomachs sour and roll from a night of half-sleep. Mark was already out of bed, his side-cult, the sounds of him moving in the kitchen muted and careful. Light sneaked in around the curtain hem, so engray. He met me with coffee my old favorite, Milky sugary, exactly how he used to make it in gentler times.

36:01Early client, he asked, for his not-soft to the normal. Yeh, highlight, ticking the mug. The word tasted wrong, but I didn't care. He watched me for a beat too long, and then busied himself with the French press. There was a scrape of mug against a rarumic, a measured calm in his motions I hadn't noticed before. Once, I would have reached for him, settled my palm on the small of his back and pressed close, inhaling more in and together. That day, I stayed chained to my side of the island, mind and body separated by that little notebook in his back, by the patterns distling through my calendar and heart. After a tight exchange of pleasantries, I retreated to my desk, safe for hand-open emails and blinking deadlines, barely hearing the city start up through frosted glass. Mark's footsteps punctuated each minute bathroom, door, hall, door again, his keys rattling as he left. No kiss could buy, not even the soft pad of lips on my scalp. Just absence. I spent the day in fits and starts work neglected, mind-wurring, the laptop opened as a decay. I scrolled through social feeds hunting for patterns, code, anything. Every little comment in a photo of Mark and Riley felt dipped in acid, I touched him

37:04the arm here, where I always comment with the devil emoji there. I tried not to pass every interaction, but it was impossible. I launch, I was pacing. To restless to eat, I scoured every old message Mark and I had stashed on Google Drive, the jokes, the mundane lists, the bells in everyday language, don't forget to buy eggs, always freaks me out how much you get me. Now I didn't know what any of it meant. Had they become just lines in the wrong context props, fake scripts. By late afternoon, Mark's absence began to feel like a steady leak each hour and other puzzle I had no pieces for. I texted Mina half hoping she'd call, half hoping no one would. I needed the out someone to tell me I was overreacting that people could be so tangled together for working nothing more. But she replied, simple and solid, you know where to find me. If you need. My phone was buzzing with reminders, digital calendar banging about an upcoming dinner one week pond with Jamal and Lee, set weeks ago, now seeming like a threat from a happer couple's life. I cancelled the invite, were scheduled with a false excuse, feeling the shop sting of letting others down but not knowing how to explain anything.

38:04When Mark returned that evening, Tencha marinated the air. He paused in the entryway, Iamed the unread male then me. Long day, he asked for voice pitch-low. Yeah, you? He nodded. Worse than usual. There was a soft warning in his tone, a plea not to probe. He sank onto the battered couch, funcreddled in his hand, scrolling, tapping, exiting apps. They glow from the screen-carved hard lines and just features. We cycled through dinner and we had silence in a music, just the scrape of forks and the ambient hum of the city. I watched him marvel at salad and bred like they might yield some distraction. He offered tidbits about work, little fictions I nodded through. After I washed dishes, letting my hands scorch under the tap, every plate of sentence I couldn't bring myself to speak aloud. Late that night, I found myself standing by a big living room window, looking out on the surdium lit street. Those moved in furtive lines, had light sweeping shadows over rain-street desolate. Somewhere, someone else's laughter rose a reminder that the world was still so alive, so exposed. Mark stopped in the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, gaze fixed at his own reflection

39:06in the glass. He ever felt like you were living someone else's life. I asked quietly, mostly into the glass. He startled. Sometimes, he said the slightest catch in his voice. Why? I shit my head. I don't know, habit. These joe flexed as if he wanted to add more than retreated, melting into his phone and his silence. We carried ourselves off to bed not long after separate, still even under the same sheets. The division of our energies became the new normal. Every meal, every bed-temritual, every unshaired joe-cold comforts eroded by the ritual of avoidance. Days went on like that, the surface concovering something ragged and dangerous underneath. But not everything could be contained forever. The next few days, a small erosion picked up horse. I tried to start a conversation and Mark would glance up, distracted, and not quite the hum escaping his lips. His phone would go off and he'd reach for it by reflex, bending away from me. I counted the times per hour, five, six, sometimes more. One night, the streaming surface again asked for a password, and I hesitated, staring at the reset screen.

40:08Should I just make a new one? I called. Mark called back. I've got it. Workstuffed securities updated. Don't worry about it. His tone was too sharp, almost irritated by my knee-dask. Do you want to just write it down for me? I tried. He scowled then forced a smile. I will, tomorrow. Small eyes boomed like mold and the cracks never big enough to challenge your trite, never innocent enough to ignore. I became the background presence he maneuvered around, guilty by association with my own mistrust. Friday rolled in cold and bright. Mark woke early, too energetic. He dressed with care-a-press buttoned down, crisp jeans, the kind of outfit he wore for public meetings or rare family dinners. Stop thinking, I asked what's the occasion? He blinked at me, smile flickering. Workshop with the planning team, remember Riley's running point. I might be late. I nodded blood pounding in my ears. Should I plant in there? A pause. I'll let you know. He left perfume lingering in the air behind him a floral note, soft to this time, a mistake would not his. The apartment expanded with his absence.

41:09I sat at my desk, unwilling to work, were running old conversations, focusing instead on trivial things, dust in the windowsill, a dead leaf on the monster, a package reminder for something I couldn't recall ordering. I checked social media. Riley posted a story, a skyline shot from the roofed up bar, two glasses clinking in a frame captioned, Friday, at last. No faces, no names, but I recognized this world of handwriting on the cocktail napkin Riley's, a mistakeable. Anasishmina, do you want to meet tonight? She replied instantly, of course. Where? We met at the little bar, three streets over at the one with sticky tables and murals rolled with hundreds of inside wishes. Mina and her combat boots in yellow scarf was a fortress. I told her everything the receipts, the late nights, the passwords stonewalling, the notebook in Mox bag. Each word left me lie dead but raw. She listened, didn't interrupt, held my hand when I started to cry. He you don't deserve to shrink inside your own home, she said, voice low and fierce. I thanked her, voice trembling. If I'm wrong if I'm just paranoid, what if I've made everything worse?

42:10Mina shook her head. If through this foreign doubt, hand, that's not nothing, don't let loyalty make his whole poison. I walked home late, gloved hounds in my pockets, the city's neon bleeding into the starless sky. Every window felt like a mystery, every illuminated room in a different stage set for someone else's drama. I found Mark already home, kitchen flooded with lemon light. He stood at the counter, sipping whiskey, shoulder slumped, as bloodshotted. He didn't look up when I entered. Long night? I asked, voice sounded down to almost nothing. He grunted non-commitally, clinking the ice in his glass. To do workshop go late? Late enough? The entire exchange was a bad rehearsal. I lingered behind him, wanting to ask a hundred questions and unable to pick a single safe one. He finished his whiskey, rinsed the glass, and retreated to the bedroom door shutnaught quite all the way. I stayed up half watching a run before finally switching everything dark. The next morning, Saturday, was supposed to be lazy breakfast, grocery shopping, maybe the drive-in date he'd flow to the last week. Instead, Mark announced, got to go in for some sight walks, Riley says we've got to see

43:12the crosswalk plan in daylight. No offer to join. No invite. But you want me to come? I asked testing the boundaries. He hesitated, almost laughed. I doubt you want to hear about unfinished cobes and easements for four hours. I pressed a smile into my face. He put on his windbreaker, gathered his notes on his will and laughed. I watched him from the window, walking fast, shoulders tense. Along the avenue, Riley appeared, a black speck angling into Mark's line, their stride synchronous. They walked away together, heads tilted in close conversation. Time folded. I waited in the drift of afternoon, hoping for something I didn't know what. One evening fell, and Mark still hadn't texted, I called Jermall. He answered on the second ring, his baritone reassuring as always. Hey, haven't seen you guys in ages, everything good. I tried to sound light. Just busy, I guess. He went serious. You are not Hannah, if you need anything or just want to crash a ticket and as you know where I live. I thanked him, swallowing the rise in my throat.

44:12It would have been so much easier if we'd fought, or if he pressed for the ugly answer. By midnight, Mark wasn't home. I texted, then called to no answer. At 1.15, the door clicked, quietly, like he hoped I wouldn't hear. He peeled off his shoes, dipped toward to the bathroom, showered with dough locked. When he emerged, he smelled faintly of soap, hair still damp, eyes not meeting mine. He grabbed a water bottle and headed back to the bedroom, face inscrutable. Sunday, we co-existed and parallel him reading the news, had phones in, me watering plants and tidying shelves in a day's. Neither of us broached the topic of us. Each silence felt heavier, loaded with all the questions, neither of us wanted to answer. Late afternoon, I gathered all the receipts, the ticket stubs, the notes, laying them on the kitchen table under the harsh light. The evidence pulsed with guilt and betrayal, but also with release. I stacked everything, neat, methodical, my hands steady now that I decided. One mark finally wanted in after another call, I was waiting. I gestured to the table. Sit. He hovered in the doorway, where? What's up? I need you to sit, Mark.

45:13He did, slowly, setting his phone down face down, finger-splaying protectively. With deliberate precision, I pushed the pile across to him. You want to tell me what this all means? His eyes traveled across the clutter then back to me. Hannah, what is this? Receipt from places you said you weren't, ticket stubs for things you didn't tell me, Riley's handwriting notes pass words change everywhere, he lying about where you were, who you were with, you're not working late, not every time, are you. His lips part, a silent protest forming, but dying before it left his throat. You're being paranoid, he managed voice brittle. I shook my head, voice trembling between anger and heartbreak. Don't gaslight me, I have the proof in front of you, I had Riley on your phone, I saw you with them, I have the note, Mark. We stared at each other, the silence erupted. He tried once to push everything away to sweep it up and disappear. But his handshook, his jaw worked and nothing came. I spoke, quite and deadly, are you cheating? He deflated in his chair, handslamp. For a moment I thought he might deny everything that he'd been at another way, craft a story

46:13that I almost wanted to believe. But he didn't. It started after the zoning vote, he said, voice soothed and I barely caught the words. That night at River and Rye, I was fried, Riley needed to decompress, there was just drinks, talking, I didn't mean for anything to change, but then I closed my eyes by rising. Did it go further? He looked down, it did once, I won't lie it happened, after that we just spent more time together, worked blood into everything. I pressed my palms onto the cold wood, grounding myself. Was it emotional too, or just sex? Is face crumpled. Both at first, I thought I could talk to Riley about things I was afraid to say to you, work things that I didn't plan it hand, I swear I didn't, you were so busy, so so somewhere else to kept up, I didn't want to hurt you. I tasted metal at the back of my throat. You did. He flinched. I didn't realise how the epa was until I couldn't tell you, then I panicked, I thought if I just stopped, if I threw myself into work or dragged us away for the trip, it'd go away, but it didn't. But you kept lying, I said, barely above a whisper.

47:16He covered his face, foes muffled. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Tears slipped down my cheeks, heart and humiliating, as I realised every detail I diced it was not invention, but a mission deliberate and practiced. The years of trust, the rituals, the intimacy that had once been armour for us it all felt counterfeit, a beautiful thing bought with counterfeit bills. Mark reached for my hand and I pulled away, the shape of my own grief refusing comfort. He begged, please, it wasn't you hand, I was scared lost, work, the stress. Riley just got me through, but it was a mistake, I've wanted to fix it, I was too afraid. I shook my head. Don't make this about my absence, you could have talked to me, you chose not to. He nodded, silent tears prooling in his eyes. I know, I'm sorry. We sat for a long time in the ruin silence near the of a stair break, a scoff table between us now cron scene. He said, what do you want to do? I found I had no answer. My whole body was buzzing with loss, nor sir, a deep cold I knew would stay for a while. I left in there, hunched in shaman tears, and walked to the bedroom, breathing past the howl lost in my chest.

48:18The apartment was a mosaile, a place haunted by all the features I no longer believed in. I packed my overnight bag with a change methodical slowness shoving in basics ignoring the neatness I prized for so long. Mark appeared at the doorframe, voice horse. Where are you going? Meenaz, I said over my shoulder, not breaking pace. I need space. He nodded, wiping his eyes. I grabbed my keys, phoned the crumpled notebook with Riley's note. At I left, he called after me, his voice breaking. Han, I'm sorry, I love you. I closed the door softly behind me, refusing to answer, my heart too raw to risk words. At I, the city was still moving cars, voices, bars humming with the life I'd chosen to step away from. Every inch of sidewalk was both eggsile and relief. Meenaz didn't ask questions. She just let me in, wrapped me in a blanket, handed me a bottle of water, and sat quietly at my side while I broke for the first time in months. I told her everything solved guttural, not a mask I was staining her shoulder in a gorivalis, hands curled and fists. She let me empty out until my voice was ragged in my mind hollow clean.

49:20Mark's text started almost immediately, please could we talk. Please let me explain better. I can't lose you. I silenced notifications, the pain-shopper for my own willingness to look away. I deleted our shared calendar, old reminders pinging in warning. I canceled appointments. I texted Jamal, not coming Saturday, sorry. Explain later. I unfollowed Riley on half my socials. I left Mark's note from Riley crumpled in my bag. The next morning, sunlight cold through the blinds in Meenaz living room, painting new shades on my feet. I felt emptied out, but not free. It was the bluntness of apps and smarcas, futurous, no longer waiting for a shoe to drop. I showed with borrowed soap, changed into leggings, and one of Meenaz oversized sweatshirts, and stared at my own puffy reflection in the mirror. For once I couldn't construct a next move. There was just the ache, and the knowledge that everything in me was not changed, sealed off from before. A few days later, when I tattooed, it was logistics only, I'll come by Thursday to get more of my stuff. Please don't be there, or if you are, I won't stay long. Thursday came cold and sharp.

50:22I filled a grocery bag with old sweatshirts, tall lilies, the stack of project notebooks we'd once shared. The room felt smaller now, choked with the unsaid. Mark was there, standing by his desk, a small apologetic presence amid the clutter of our interrupted life. He tried to meet my eye, but I was already lowering my head. Focused only on the practical motions, shoving my shoes into the tote, organising papers I couldn't quite throw away. We didn't talk. The hollow between us did all the work. I shouldered my back, fingers trembling as if the last pocket shut. At the door, he's called in my hand, a glance back. The apartment, once ours, now held its breath. I looked back, eyes burning. My voice barely rose above the hush, I thought we were invincible. Mark blinked, his own voice graving out, so did I. I stepped into the hallway closing the door behind me. The echo lingered one last breath of our life as it had been, settling into pals of quite the followed. At our walkaway, the way to my chest felt strangely bearable, bored by funnality. The city's muted light replacing the warmth I used to note, each footstep drawing a new boundary between what was lost and what I choose from now on to carry forward.

51:26And that is the end. Thank you for listening, and I will see you in the next one.