He Rehearsed His Lies Until They Sounded Like Love

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1:03Hello, 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.

2:05Marco 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.

3:05He 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,

4:06as 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.

5:08It 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.

6:08The 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.

7:08Asterisk 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.

8:08Castenners 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

9:08into 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,

10:08eyes 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,

11:08candlelit, 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.

12:08Sierra 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. They say, if you want to go fast, go alone. But if you want to go far, go together. At Amika Insurance, we know what matters most to you. And we work even harder to protect it, together. As a mutual insurance company, we're built for our customers and prioritize your needs. Amika, empathy is our best policy. Visit Amika.com and get a quote today. Forget whatever plans you have this weekend,

13:09because you're staying at home and playing on SpinQuest. And there's never been a better time to sign up than right now. New users get $30 coin packs for just $10. All the table games you love, with hundreds of slot games and real cash prizes. That's at SpinQuest.com, S-P-I-N-Q-U-S-T dot com. SpinQuest is a free-to-play social casino. Boydware prohibited. Visit SpinQuest.com for more details. 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.

14:09Don'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.

15:09There'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.

16:10As 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,

17:10half-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

18:10of 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.

19:10The 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,

20:10kind 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

21:10her 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.

22:10I 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.

23:10I 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

24:10figured 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

25:10charge, 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.

26:10At 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 verbally day after day, every excuse innovation, every cab receipt from neighborhoods we never visited. At Amika insurance, your time and peace of mind matter. Bundle your auto and home coverage with us and enjoy savings that make life a little easier. As a mutual insurance company, we're built for our customers. We prioritize your needs, and are here for you when you need us. Amika, empathy is our best policy. Visit Amika.com and get a quote today.

27:10Forget everything you had planned for this weekend, because you are sitting on your couch and winning from the comfort of your own home. I'm here with SpinQuest, where you could play hundreds of slot games, all of the table games you love, and you could even win real cash prizes. New users, $30 coin packs are on sale for 10 at SpinQuest.com. SpinQuest is a free to play social casino. Boydware prohibited. Visit SpinQuest.com for more details. 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.

28:10But 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

29:10hung 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

30:10on 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

31:10threw 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

32:11hurt 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

33:11post 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

34:12cub 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

35:12ignore. 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

36:14edges, 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

37:14shake 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... At Amica Insurance, your time and peace of mind matter. Bundle your auto and home coverage with us and enjoy savings that make life a little easier. As a mutual insurance company, we're built for our customers. We prioritize your needs and are here for you when you need us. Amica, empathy is our best policy. Visit amica.com and get a quote today.

38:17You know what? It sucks to be bored, but when I get on my phone and play real casino games on SpinQuest.com, the time flies by, that two-hour weight at the DMV seems like 10 minutes. Play your favorite spots, live black check, live preps with a live dealer. New players, $30 coin packs are on sale for $10. Play SpinQuest.com and you'll never be bored again. SpinQuest is a free to please social casino. Boydware prohibited, visit SpinQuest.com for more details. 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

39:17press 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

40:18her 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

41:19nerves 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.

42:19I'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.

43:21You 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

44:21sounded 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.

45:21I 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,

46:21she 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,

47:21neither 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

48:22glint 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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