The Space Between Us on Sundays

0:00Hello, I'm welcome to cheating all the time. Glad you are here. Let's get into this next crazy cheat. The clan of metal balls and rookies parking is the background pulse of another rainy Sunday at the shelter. I'm elbow deep in sudsy water scrubbing chew toys, but my focus is every works out the cracked orange corn in my hands. I watch Claire out of the corner of my eye just across the kennel rail, her dark ponytail swaying as she moves. She laughs at some half-how joke from Greg, an older volunteer, then tucks her stray hair behind her ear and glances my way, offering a small, habitual smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. It's the smile she gives customers when she's tired at the bakery and ready to bolt. There's a blue checklist propped on her hip, paperwork scrolled across the top. I watch as she quietly edges around the nose and chaos, slipped between two volunteers bickering about laundry and vanishes through the battered stuff room door. Apparently, it takes almost 20 minutes to grab the med logs. I find myself watching the clock on the stained office wall. Greg's whistling while he hoses down a crate.

1:01Once a few months ago, Claire bursts right back at after barely a minute, joking about how she'd nearly locked herself in the chemicals closet. Today, I wait so long I forget what I'm washing until she finally returns, cheeks lost blood she pink, hair fluffed and slightly tangled above her temple. And she's not alone. Some is behind her, laughing too loud at something I cat here. He runs a hand through his mop of sandy hair and bumps her shoulder. She's only been at the shelter for a few months, but it's like he's always hovering in Claire's orbit. She smacks his elbow lightly, giggling and wipes invisible fur from the front of her shirt. Hey, what's so funny? I ask trying for a casual tone. Sam's mouth's that shut, just shy of another joke. Claire's eyes flick to his, then dot quickly away, and she says, oh, nothing, some just as she trails off, forcing a rigid smile and stepped around me to return the clip bodges crooked hook in the wall. Sam monitors something about needing to walk the shelty and vanishes deeper into the kennels, whistling. I toss the con into the plastic, been hard enough for it to bounce out again. Claire peeks at me over her shoulder.

2:01Sorry, I lost track of time, had to find this month's intake forms, she says, a little too quickly. Then she's gone, swallowed back into the Sunday routine, and it takes a moment before I realize I'm still staring after her, water dripping from my wrist. My chest is tight, a familiar knot twisting a little harder than it did last week. It doesn't let up, not even when we finally make it home. I try to shrug off the sense of being left out of quite words motted in rooms I'm not supposed to enter. We take out tacos on a coffee table while streaming some comedy we've already watched, but Claire keeps checking her phone. The screen lights up with a chirping notification, the shelty is a little brown poor logo, and in joke about some memes Sam sent to the volunteer group. Or so she says, I'll just answer these fast, she says, scooping up her phone and practically jogging to the bedroom. I hear the snick of the door lock. For a moment I picture her lying in bed, gurning at something typed on that forum, all while we're supposed to be planning our wedding and our life. I scrubbed the salsa bowl, and the only sound is the muted buzz of her phone and the beating in my ears. I try to remind myself that things weren't always like this. Not long ago,

3:04Claire I know of that nauseatingly happy couple of our friends rolled their eyes up. We met in line for brunch after both ending up on a waitlist for the sheldest puppy socialization She was smiling at this dopey little boulder behind a glass chatting to him through the holes, making him snort with laughter. Her energy was infectious, the kind of easy warm they always wish I could fake. We hid it off fast, and about a month into dating, she asked if I'd consider joining her Sunday volunteer shifts. It's my favourite part of the week, so you should see that version of me, she said, dangling her half melted ice coffee in front of me. It became our tradition, breakfast at gym and patties, then cobbling in her battered Subaru with the windows cracked and water repellent sunlight streaking through the clouds. We'd get there early, race to see which one of us could create potato the shelters fat brown she wore with first. After ever shift, we'd treat ourselves to pastries somewhere new, sometimes eating them under curbs, sometimes sneaking across into a movie. The car always smelled of fur and Claire's lavender hand lotion, and we'd entangle our stores from the day her sharing inside jokes from the office, me telling her every detail of dog walking disasters as if none of it had ever happened

4:04without her. Endagement came on a windy October Sunday, two years after we met. She was organising the shutters, don't know thanky bags, insisting that no way, a need more yarn for these bows. I watched her carefully soar, each colour of ribbon with maddening attention to detail, and you did this was the person I wanted to annoy, surprise, and be surprised by for the rest of my life. She said yes in the cluttered store room, surrounded by treats and nodded leashes. The next months were an easy rhythm week to date, wearing playlists in a car, Claire's neatly tucking grocery store chillips into my backpack, me leaving loyalty coupons in her jacket pockets. Our friends teased us for being insufferable, but it felt effortless, like breeding. Even at the shelter we were a team, Claire organised cat adoptions, I handled the tubs of dog kibble, always with inside of each other, often ending a shift by brushing fur off each other's sleeves. She'd leave her phone on the console of the Subaru, open to her ticks, we swiped through means together, sharing every trivial detail. Thinking back on those weeks, I can't help but wonder if I missed signals, or if things really did just start going sideways all at once. The first real crack appears on a Sunday that starts

5:06out almost normal. The forecast threatens another soaking, but we're both blear at lazy, piling pancakes onto plates and talking about seating charts. That morning, Claire says, hey, let's drive supper today, I might need to grab groceries or something after. Since when are we not carpooling? I joke, but her smile is distracted as she scrolls through a group text, her thumbs flitting. She shrugs, not looking up. Just easier, I don't want you to get stuck waiting if I have errands, sorry babe. I tried to tell myself I'm being ridiculous, but something about her tone is off flat, polite, more like we're negotiating plans with co-workers than spending the weekend together. At breakfast, she barely reacts to my dumb joke about the shelter adopting out more staff dogs than animals. She's texting, ice-quinting at the screen, and grunts out non-committal laugh. When we get to the shelter, she immediately volunteers to help Sam prep the med and bath supplies. Sam is already thinking around with the bottle of puppy shampoo, grinning at her. Normally, she'd ask if I want to help we make a good team at wrangling. She always says, but now she just waves the clipboard at me and says, can you walk the

6:06outside row, I'll grab Sam and do kennels inside. I can hear them talking as Ali Shepskittles, the limping mat. Their voices drop when I approach, a burst of muffled laughter, then silence. I loop around, pretending to fuss with the stuck latch, and catch a glimpse through the scratchy glass of glare brushing something off Sam's shoulder, both of them leaning in, her head close to his. My chest greases, but I can't seem to move. Sam looks up first and waves, Claire jumps and quickly fidgets with her name-tick. After the shift, I wait by her car expecting our usual post-shift brunch. Claire hers past, tossing her back in the back. I can, sorry, I have our plans with Kelsey, she says, referencing a mutual friend I haven't heard from in weeks. I'll see you at home. She drives off fast, leaving me with a smell of wet dogs and cold coffee, watching her tail lights blur into the rain. Later that night, I find her cold on the couch, texting furiously. I spot the shells at logo again, and before I can say anything, she flips her phone face down and offers a drawn, tied smile. That's when it all starts, small things, easy to ignore at first, but piling up like fur in the dryer. Claire's mood after

7:10those shift shifts too less animated, more quick to the rotation of forced laughter. One Sunday, I mentioned maybe skipping out early to check out a street fare, and she snaps, I have things to finish, can you just figure it out? I ask someone else to cover you. A moment later, she seems to realize the sharpness and softens, giving me a kiss on the cheek, but her smile is still brutal. The shelter group chat keeps buzzing late at night, according to her, but she only ever laughs at memes if I'm not looking over. When I question why she's glued to her phone after midnight, she rolls her eyes. It's fallen to your stuff, you know that, you're being weird, she says. He never used to care who saw your phone, I mumble, but she acts like she doesn't hear me. If I press, she gets defensive. What, you don't trust me? She says one night, cheeks reddening. It's easier to message when everyone's visiting family, not my folder or jealous of a group text. She closes her phone, locks it, and sets it under a stack of magazines. The next evening, I noticed it's never out unless she's alone. That Sunday, she had something else perfume. I noticed it first when she leans in to kiss me goodbye at the shop and familiar scent

8:11standing out against her usual lavender. I raise my eyebrows. New perfume, huh? She shrugs. Just felt like it. I can't remember her ever bothering with fragrance of the shelter, a place that smells of awhelmingly like anti-fleece spray and bleach. Now it becomes a pattern every Sunday a spicy fall in units that disappears by Monday morning. Our friends start to notice Claire's oddness, too. One Friday, we have drinks with Derek and Kelsey, all of the regulars from the shelter. Derek nudges Claire about her volunteer husband. You and Sam are, like, the dream team now, gonna ditch us for the shelter superstars. He jokes, a little too pointed for comfort. Claire's butter is a laugh and shakes her head, but pink blooms on her cheekbones. Sam's just really organized, and I needed help with the foster forms. Sam, who's drifted over to our table, just grinds at her then at me, I feel my face freezing to something I hope neutral. Kelsey nudges my arm and whispers. He's got a crush, huh? I can't tell if she means on me or on Claire. I've realized for the first time that I really don't know. At the next shift, when I try to join

9:12Claire as she manages the new intake paperwork, she steers me toward crate cleaning instead. Sam, and I got this, she says, waving off my protests with a breezy laugh. You're better at hosing the runs anyway. I count on many times Claire glances Sam's way during the morning. I lose camp before lunch. Sunday morphs from the day I look forward to into something I grit my teeth for. Claire disappears frequently to the supply room to the back office and always seems to orbit Sam. If he walks toward the fresh blanket bins, she's moving with him. If I approach, the conversation halts, both faces snapping blank. One afternoon, I decide I've had enough of not knowing. I invent a need for extra globst and follow Claire's path after she grabs Sam by the elbow, giggling about some joke she won't explain later. I trailed him toward the supply closet, slowing down as I hear their muffled voices and laughed out, then a sudden hash. I crouched a tire sheath that isn't tied in her shuffle, a clunk, Claire's low voice, don't it's risky? Then another laugh, and a quick thump of a hand on a cabinet. When I finally run to coroner, Claire is brushing her hay back, her shut crumpled in front.

10:15Sam's face is red, and he rushes past me, mumbling something about the outdoor walks. On the shelf in Claire's car that evening, a spot sounds battered Nalgene and a folded notepad. I picked them up and turned the notepad over just dog feeding schedules, but in Claire's handwriting. Sam left those in my car, she says quickly when she spots me. He's got brained, you know. Her smile is too rehearsed, and she doesn't offer more. It gets colder. Week after week, Claire says she has herons on Sundays. She starts leaving her engagement ring in a little jewelry dish by the bathroom's sync with the casual. It's safer here, I don't want it covered in fur. At first, it seems almost reasonable, but the ring sits there every weekend, untouched by Linda Paul-Prince. She oscillates between visible anxiety and surges of almost desperate affection. She brings home pastries, leaves sticking notes on my laptop, do you my favour, it's signed with a hop. But late Sunday night, she's energized, all knows or giddy relief, while Monday morning she's limp and guilty, sometimes calling into bed pressed tight to my side like an apology she can't quite voice. One Thursday night, I stumble on something I'm not meant to see, an email confirmation for a private event

11:18reservation at a local cafe the same place some post an Instagram story from later that evening, pouring latte art with private party as a caption, his bright red final sleeve are mistakable. I wait for Claire to see she's seeing Sam. She claims she's working late at the bakery, but gets home with flyerless hands and a new scarf, still humming cheeks ruddy. I scroll through her feed. Nothing. Sam's story expires by morning, and her calendar remains blank. My sleep starts to suffer. Some nights a lie awake, scrolling through Claire's social media, tracking her likes and comments, hunting ghost trails for evidence I already suspect. Did she just like Sam's post from a dog park at minute? Wasn't that the same bench in the picture Claire sent me last week her solo coffee break? My thoughts churn and not until I can barely breathe. Sometimes I scroll back to all photos of us, a messy hair in the shelter sunlight, arms looped around my neck, so open, so obviously in love. I find myself compulsively checking a phone every chance I get. When she ducks into the shower, I rifle through her messages. Most of it looks innocent shelter group memes schedules.

12:19But Sam's name starts to appear more and more in her notifications. Each message short enough for plausible deniability. Late one Sunday night, I catch a whiff of her new perfume on a hoodie in the laundry. There's a faint and familiar mark in the left shoulder red, almost the shape of lips, but maybe just a fruit stain, I tell myself. Then one morning, a week after a tense breakfast where Claire seems unable to meet my eyes, she calls me Sam. It's brief a slip, so ordinary it could be a joke. We're arguing over what music to play in the kitchen. She says, come on, some I mean and then she covers with an exaggerated laugh. Sorry, you two are running together in my brain. But her cheeks turn red and she quickly stacks the dishes and flees to the living room. I tried to play it off too, but the word clatter is around in my head, making something inside me shatter. Arriving at the shelter that Sunday, I sense a subtle shift. As I walk in, the stuff at the front desk glance at me just to beat too long, then quiet their conversation. Greg, who usually tosses me the keys to the lock-up, does so without looking up. I imagine snippets of their conversation with a talking about Claire. About Sam? I start to slip second by second,

13:21closer to the edge of confrontation. Sleep escapes me, anxiety clutches my chest. Sometimes, when I look at Claire, it feels like I'm seeing a stranger one living a second, mirror life just an inch from my own. The Sunday before everything breaks, I finally cross the invisible line I swore I never would. Claire is in the shower, a phone left buzzing on the ottoman. I tell myself I'm only looking for peace of mind. I swipe up, thumb trembling, and open her messages with Sam. For a moment, it's just the usual shift notes, meeting reminders. Then I scroll up on my breath ceases. The conversation is filled with inside jokes, entire flirting worlds I don't recognize. Messages like, can't wait for our secret mission next week, and last time was perfect, but let's not get caught this time, flash before my eyes. There are photos, to a blurry shot of Claire and Sam faces close together, head tingling over something in her hands. They're both laughing. She's wearing the same red scarf sent out in his story. I steady myself, screen hot in my palms. Maybe they'd just close. Maybe I'm inventing drama. I click out of the text for it and slip her

14:23phone back where I found it guilt burning through me. That evening, after dinner, I ask Claire about the messages. Are you in, Sam? I can't finish it. My voice is so thin that it barely leaves my throat. She looks up startled. For one split second, I see fear flicker in her eyes. We're just friends, she says flatly as if the words are prepped tucked in her cheek like a safety bin. Honestly, I'm hurt you even think otherwise. If you don't trust me, what's the point? My chest aches. Then what's with all the secret missions and inside jokes I never hear? She crosses her arms. We vent about the shelter. You know how stressful it is, right? I thought you did. Those are just jokes, God. Are you seriously invading my privacy now? Her face hardens. If you ever want to see my phone, just ask, but this, she shakes her head, fury, and winded dignity battling across her features. She doesn't have me the phone, though. Later that week, I noticed the chat with Sam is missing, a hole for a gun except for a few new messages about the Saturday food drive. For about a week, the tension listens its chuckled. Clothes solicitus

15:24again brings home bagels, pulls me into long hugs, leaves her phone out in the open lobby, it now locked every time she puts it down. It feels, for a heartbeat like maybe I'm paranoid, that the long list of reasons for suspicion new perfume inside jokes, Sam's bottle, missing ring are all explainable. For a night, I even sleep easy. But always, under every half-hearted reassurance, some morphish corner of my mind keeps asking what I'm missing. Then the next Sunday comes. There's a fundraiser. Players in charge, running back and forth between the lobby and the back office. I help at the donation table for a few ires, but my heart isn't in it. At 5.30, I realize I've left my jacket in the break room, and after a brief goodbye to Greg, I double back through the empting holes. I move quietly at the way you do in all buildings that seem to echo more at night. The shelter offers glows yellow behind a thin crack in the blinds. I hear laughter, muffled, but high and sweet, the sound clear used to make just for me. My hand freezes on the door knob. I'm suddenly terrified, so I just stand still listening, the third of my pulse so loud I'm sure I'll give myself away. Through the gap as sea shadows.

16:27I don't want to look, but I do, peering through the blinds as though I'm watching a movie I can't stop. A flash glare sitting in the spindly desk chair, arms held around Sam's neck, her mouth pressed to his, her body on his lap. I can see her hand twined in his shirt, her other tugging his hair, and the soft, rumbling sound of the laughter when they break apart. Sam kisses her jaw, her cheek, then leans in again, undeterred by anything or anyone outside that office door. I can't even move. For a second, I wonder if I'm actually seeing my own life. I reach for my phone, handswitting so hard it sticks, and snap a blurry picture before stumbling back down the hall. The last weeks, all the confusion and late night fights in new perfume and errands they collapse into shot, colour is certainty. There's no plausible story, no more explanations left that don't hurt. I stand outside, rainstinging my face and jacket with arms, the grainy footer clammy and a deniable in my pocket, knowing I now have to decide what to do with the truth. I walk for a few blocks in the wet, colour up teeth chattering, but barely registering the cold. Every time I close my eyes, I see them, claves pale hands, small insure, clutching Sam's

17:28shirt, the way she leaned into his mouth, then guarded softness of her laughter. It's as if I've tripped a wire and a whole map of our relationship every good day, every in joke and dog walk and shared coffee has gone up in smirk, replaced by a snapshot in the yellow lit office. I get home first. Players not chew back for another hour, she always stays late to close books with the shelter manager. I don't know if that's still true, if it's ever been true, or if it's just another line like the rest. The apartment feels smaller than usual, caging me in with the quiet. I throw my damn shoes by the door and collapse onto the couch, jacketless, the cold finally creeping in and sticking to my spine. I want to rage to smash something, but what comes out and said is this low, silent ache that makes it hard to swallow. My phone is heavy and alien in my hand, the photo pulled up again even though I can barely look. For a moment, I thumb to close contact my finger hovering over call. I imagine asking the question I try to where are you, who are you with, but the imagined answers, the note of defenseness in her voice, the wish will twist her face if I press, all of it stops me. Instead, I stare at our old engagement photo stuck to the fridge the one

18:29her friend took a cannon beach. Players head is on my shoulder, a smile genuine, both of us win Tangled and glowing in grey desk. Our rings look bright and silly. I can't get it through my head, the person in that photo and the one pressed up against some in the shelter office are the same. My thoughts stutter and loop, landing on the million little details that don't add up, but never quite proved anything every last minute, every new shirt, every sudden air, and every quiet pocket of time where she's seen miles away. I pace the living room, open and close the fridge for no reason, where we read half a dozen meaning that sticks with trembling hands. The keys jangle in the lock before I'm ready. Clothes bustles in, shaking water from her jacket, cheeks rosy from the cold or from something else. I watch her and spool the scarf pose in the entry as if suddenly aware I'm staring. Hey, you're home early, she says surprised but composed. She drops her back next to mine, hers to the kitchen, movements a little too careful. Everything okay, you left quick at the fundraiser, Greg said you seemed off. Forgot my jacket, as all I manage, voice sandpaper thin. She doesn't ask more, she just nods. Lips pressed tight as if she too is tiptoeing around the swollen, invisible bruise.

19:32She stands at the counter, scrolling through something on her phone, thumb flicking so fast she can be reading. There's the faintest trace of her new perfume spices. Wask, it used to linger only on date nights. Now it's part of the wardrobe. For a few long minutes, the only sound is the drip of water from her hair onto the tile. I tried to look at her, really see her, but it's like staring for a sheet of glass. I know the shapes, but the emotions behind them have shifted, legs of the table rearranged while I was sleeping. Did the funder is a meat the goal? I ask for a steady, just to hear it. She glances up sharply. Yeah, actually, blew it out of the water. Sam had all these contacts from his marketing job. Everyone loved his dog portrait table. It's almost a normal answer. Almost. I watched the way her lips curved smile, maybe, but not meant for me. Cool, I say, didn't get to see it, place was too packed. If she notices the flatness, she gives no sign. We avoid each other without acknowledging it, like two cats in a kitchen. She disappears into the bedroom, to change, returns in a thick sweater and loose gym shorts and picks up her phone, thumbs flying. Out of the corner of my eye,

20:33I see the shelter logo pop up in her notifications again. He'd tell me if something was wrong, right? I ask suddenly, hating the tiny break in my voice. She blinks, startled, then forces a casual yon. Just tired, she says, lawn shift. She smooths her hair and gazes at me, her eyes are soft and careful as the hands of a nurse folding fresh goals. I search her face for guilt for anything, but there's nothing except distance. I wonder for the thousandth time, is it me? Am I seeing shadows in bright rooms chasing nothing because I've already decided something's broken? That night, in bed, she lies facing away from me, fingers curled under her jaw, falling on the nightstand. I can't sleep. Every time she shifts, my heart jumps with the faint hope that she'll turn, curl against me the way she used to, the way she did before Sundays became a dividing line. In the darkness, her outline is familiar, but I've never felt more like a stranger in my own home. The days call by, each one defined by what I can't ask. At work, I drift through meetings while my brain replays everything I've seen or have seen, I laugh too private, I show a button wrong, the way Sam used to linger about a donut table as staff picnics.

21:36Sometimes, in the afternoons, I convince myself it was a trick of the light that all I saw was a hug stretch to be too long. Other times, I stare at my phone and try again and again to top myself out of the confrontation I know is coming. When I get home one evening, Claire is in the phone, pace in the living room so intently she almost bumps into the armchair. She's speaking quietly, but just loud enough that I can make out the filter of performance in her tone cheery, a little sing-song, the voice she used to use with her old roommate when I was new to her world. She ends the call quickly when she spots me, clicking off speaker cheek flushed. Hey, she says almost guilty. Just sorting some details with the shelter fundraiser team. It's always the shelter, now ever excuse, every plan, every minute she can to camp for. She slips past me to set the kettle on, movements clumsy, eyes darting away from mine. Next Sunday, I try something different. I show up at the shelter early enough that the volunteer coordinator is still unloading boxes from her Subaru and wait by the coffee station, forcing myself to look calm. When Claire arrives, she's alone as usual these days, but her surprise that seeing me is palpable. He beat me here, she jokes, easing her way in with

22:39a tight smile. Normally, she'd say something about me never being a morning person, rough on my hair, offered to trade tasks. Instead, she stays at her phone for a minute before glancing over my shoulder. I look behind me, no Sam yet. Yeah, thought we could do the paperwork together, like we used to. Well, actually Sam and I are doing intake today, he needs to learn the new spreadsheet. The words are fast, pre-rehearsed. You're so much better in the dog run, spade, and Greg said he'd bring breakfast over later, I'll catch up after intake. I nod, there have he between us. She leans in quick, not quite touching my lips, her hand just brushing my shoulder and disappears down the hall. I linger a moment longer, then drift toward the intake office and able to help myself. I hear low forces, laugh to Claire and Sam through the rhythm of their conversation impossible easy. I end up spending half the morning pretending to wipe down windows, watching them for reflections. Sam jokes, waving around a leash, Claire tosses her head back laughing, then elbows him close and familiar. When I approach, Claire's voice drops to business like her eyes darting. Sam grins, nods awkwardly, and backs off.

23:42As soon as I turn my back, I sense rather than see them all be back together. At lunch, Greg dumps two donuts into my palm. You look rough and skittles after bath duty, man, he says, not in kindly. Things okay. I open my mouth to bullshit, but Greg shakes his head, glancing over to where Sam and Claire stand close at the supply closet, deep in conversation only they can hear. She's changed a bit, huh? Greg marimers his toe and soft. Not my business, but I don't know. Man, you two were the team last year, feels like you're on different pages now. Yeah, I say, voices thin as tissue. I sense him trying to offer comfort, but there's nothing useful to say. The implied understanding pity makes my insides crawl. When the shift is over, Claire lingers by the staff from door, her arm hooks casually through Sam's. He laughs at something he types into his phone, she pretends not to notice my stare. Hey, I've got to help Sam with the food drive load-in. You go ahead, I'll be home in a bit. There's no room for argument. I leave hand stuff to my pockets. I walk the block to where our cars are parked, find my own,

24:44then impulsively turn and watch from a half concealed bench, unable to force myself to drive away. I see her and Sam reappeared together, ushering grace into his hatchback. There's a closeness, a kind of choreography, to the way they walk a tenderness that stings, its intimacy obvious even from a distance I'd rather not be observing from. They share a moment she says something, he laughs, she claps a hand over her mouth, and he reaches out to gently tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. That familiar gesture of the same one she used to reserve for me on windy walks or in a crud a tush of a movie line. For a second, Claire glances my direction, but I duck my head before our eyes can meet. By the time I get home, she's already there, feed up texting. She startles when I enter, then breezes into a running monologue about how long the load-in took, how Sam and her never labels anything and would have missed the records or after the fundraiser. I nod along, letting her words run over me, but everything she says sounds like noise. That night, she showers as soon as the dinner dishes are clear. There it is again, the new perfume fresh on her collar even as she climbs into pajamas. I watch her for some sign that I can still reach her, but she's a ghost, moving through routines

25:45I know by heart and yet cannot seem to join. She reaches over, squeezes my hand, eye-shining with something guilt. Sadness? And tells me she loves me, voice thin and winded. I love you too, I say, and somewhere our hole on us opens up in my chest wide enough to swallow all the things I have not said. The week that follows is a blur of small observations. Claire starts locking her phone even in the bath. Her engagement ring, which once only came off for heavy baking or cleaning, now lives in the little porcelain bowl and touch Sunday through Tuesday. She bristles a questions, pivots away from any mention of Sam, fills our silences with updates about whiting things she no longer seems invested in, the kick-tasting we keep postponing the half-fridden guest list hit to the fridge. At night, she curls toward the wall, arms folded tight. I watch the pulse at her neck, the slow rise and fall of her breath, and ache for the days when she curl under my arm, humming tunelessly, asking about my dreams. On Thursday, I pick up her coat from the back of a chair and find an unfamiliar note tucked in the pocket to doodle of a dog, a corny teamwork makes the dream work pen beneath it to send us. My stomach twists. I almost ask, but I already know

26:49what she'd say Sam's just a friend, the same friend who, now, seems to take all the cracks and left of us of her attention. When I try to plan a night out of just us and movie and burgers, like we used to she demurs, saying she swamped, exhausted, not feeling social. That same evening, I check social media and see Sam Tatt at a trivia night at a brewery near our apartment. There's a drink in the foreground, two-hand visible, one with his chunky sports watch, the other with nails paint a clothes favorite, still grey. The caption is ambiguous winning squad, but somehow feels aimed at me, or maybe just at whatever innocence is left in the world. Friday, I wake up to pace you as an encounter and a sticky note her rushed handwriting, the heart at the end more beautiful than real. Have a good day, love you see. She's already gone, and I sit in the kitchen to pace you flaking to pieces in my hand, trying to taste something besides ash. At work, my nerves are shot. I can't focus. Every text from her feels weighted, is she really at lunch with Kelsey, or is that just what she's typed into our shared calendar? Every half truth, every omission, grains of suspicion grinding deep up beneath my skin. That evening, she comes home late,

27:50cheeks flushed, phone in a death grip. I hear her in the bathroom, humming under her breath, it's almost a happy song, something silly from the car radio. She emerges in pajamas before nine, crawls into bed beside me, wraps her arms around my waist with a ferocity that leaves me stunned. If I ask if everything's okay, she just kisses my shoulder and says, just I, just happy to see you. Her breath smells faintly of wine, not the varietal we keep in our cabinet. I lie awake, hot hammering, convinced that the woman next to me is slipping out to sea, already half-fanished while I'm holding her hand. On Saturday afternoon, Kelsey text me a meme of photo of two golden retrievers snuggle together. Underneath, she's captioned, your girl and her work husband, ha ha. I stare at the image and tell my vision blurs. I almost reply with a question, but Kelsey's next text arrives before I do, I'd give you notice, but Claire's been not herself lately, you okay? I'm not sure what to say. Every word feels dangerous. Yeah, we're just busy, waiting stuff and shelter madness. I type back and watch as the chat shows Kelsey is typing her then stops. Sunday comes on fast. It's raining, steady and mean.

28:55The sky is close and grey. Claire's up early, already dressed ringless. She sits on the edge of the bed, thumb-flying across her phone screen. She doesn't notice me watching. I'll head up first, she says, as fixed on her phone. Blot to set up at the shelter. If don't you want coffee, we always get coffee. She hesitates, then shakes her head. Gonna grab some with Sam and Greg a fundraiser planning. I want to ask her to let me join to take her hand and insist we reclaim some tiny scrap of what we were, but the words die in my throat. Instead, I watch a sling her tote bag over her shoulder, hair coat up in that signature ponytail, perfume shop in her wake. I'll see you there, she says then is gone, the apartment silence billowing in behind her. When I arrive at the shelter 30 minutes later, Claire and Sam are deep in conversation by the office. She's laughing, let's close to his ear, his hand drifting to her waist just for a moment, but it's enough. I spend the morning unable to settle, drifting from kennel to kennel, listening for their voices, watching for their shadows in every reflective surface. They're careful, now never quite alone when I nearby, always finding a reason to split off

29:57with switch tasks when mentioned Greg is a buffer. Still, I see it, sounds handbrushing hello back as they pass in the hallway the way she tucks her hair, bashful, when he compliments her color coated forums. She's practically vibrating, all nervous energy and quick, darting glenses. Once, I catch her in a daydream, a small, secret smile on her face as she whites down a countertop, and I know just know who she's thinking about. No one says anything, but the glances are back. Greg shoot me a pitting look. Tell see what meet my eyes as she organizes the leash rack. Sam is all bright, brittle charm over compensating, like someone hiding a secret written in capital letters. After lunch, I find myself watching Claire again noticing more than before, the way she seems to light up around Sam, the easy warmth of their banter, how they fall into a rhythm, finishing each other's sentences, laughing at references I can't possibly get. During a lull in the kennel chaos, I see her past Sam opposite, their fingers grazing. He beams then tucks it into his pocket. She catches my eye, freezes for a second, then gives me the same practice smile, so polite I want to scream. When the shift ends,

30:58the rain has let up, but the walls don't feel sodened claustrophobic. Claire is up first, waving her goodbyes with Sam at her side, promising to catch up later about foster planning. Ride home? I ask instinct betraying me remembering all the rides we used to share. She shakes her head as flickering. Actually, I promise Sam I'd help him drop supplies at the food bank, I'll see you at home. The words are gentle, apologetic. But the answer is always no. I drive home in silence, knuckles wet in the wheel. At the stoplight, my phone buzzes, a message from Claire. Running late, don't wait up for dinner, love you. I pull over, brief through the ache in my throat, and try not to picture all the things she might be doing when helping Sam. There was a time I never could have imagined doubting a word out of her mouth. Now every sentence is a weapon. I scroll ups and mindedly through her social feeds, stare at a blurry group photo posted to the shelter's story, Claire's arm around Sam, her face half hidden by hair, both grinning oblivious. That night she comes home after 11. She slips in quietly, as if afraid to wake me, but I'm still up, sitting cross-legged in the living room for

31:59the TV flickering low. She hesitates in the doorway, then walks over, stands in front of me, hands barred in sweater sleeves. Sory and late, she sits softly. Long night, everyone wanted to see the new shelter budget, then I had to help Sam with his car, his battery sucked again. I want to rise to pull her in, to demand the truth or beg for just a fragment of what we were. But I say nothing. She leans down, brushes her lips over my hair, then disappears into the shower, humming that same happy private tune. I sit there, alone, the afterimage of her touch burning in my scalp, wondering when I start being the person she shared her life with and became the obstacle she navigated around on her way to something or someone else. The next morning, sunlight slices through the kitchen blinds, warm for the first timing weeks. I find the little post-lending dish on the windowsill still cradling her engagement ring. I pick it up, press it between my palms. There are no scratches, no marks, just a cool quiet weight of everything I don't know. For the rest of that long Sunday, I watch the clock, every hour marking another inch I slip from certainty. The air of the apartment feels taught,

32:59stretched in between my questions and clears elaborate silences. She spends the afternoon booking the venue hold up in the bedroom with her laptop and phone, door locked. I try one last time to bridge whatever chasm we're teetering on. Want to get dinner somewhere? I call through the door. Just us? There's a heartbeat. I hear her moving the click of the mass. Rain check, I'm on hold with the caterers, maybe later this week? Her voice is so gentle, so practiced, I don't have the energy to push. I go for a walk, letting the drizzle slick my hair and chill my skin. I take the lawn way around our favorite block, the one with the mural painted with dogs and bikes and some flowers. I think of the day we adopt a skittles of how glad I did a happy dance on the sidewalk, how she handed me her phone to take her picture hugging the scruffy mat. My hand still remembers the shape of her joy. By the time I get home, she's back to her old self on the surface. Shipper, offering me a mug of cocoa, talking about which invitations we eat looks least tacky. She even drew it turnies across my lap on the couch, flicking through her tablet, pretending to consult me on color schemes for napkins. If I didn't know what I know,

34:02I could almost believe it all of it is real, none of it is hide in anything. But every time I close my eyes, the image returns Claire and Sam trying to get her in a shelter office, alive in a way she hasn't been with me in months. That truth sits cold and closed in my chest, impossible to forget even as I smile, even as I pretend. I put the ring back in his dish, the coolness lingering in my palm. When Claire emerges from the bedroom, she moves as if nothing's amiss, pausing long enough to nod toward the ring. It didn't want to lose it while sorting stuff, she says, smiling just enough for her voice to seem normal. I say nothing, just watch the wall behind her feel the brittle air. That day, we moved to ritual her at the laptop, making notes about seating charts, we have heartedly calling the florist. She asked for my opinion on table run-os, but the question lands limp between us. I think about that office, the image still carved into me. Each time she turns to check her phone, something tightens. Potention is no longer a front beneath the surface, it's everywhere, thick and inescapable. The eyes grind past. I see her send a text, her body language coiling tight, head duct as soon as she gets to reply. When I try to glance at her screen,

35:05she angles it away, pretending not to notice. Her laugh, once wide open, is pinching her, it pressed out in half-choked bursts only when she's typing. I don't know how I make it through dinner. We've left her verse. Claire asks how works been, as if she's reading subtitles for a role she's lost the thread to. When she suggests we could watch something mindless, I nod, but barely hear the show's dialogue. At the first commercial break she checks her phone, then stands. I'm calling my sister back. We'll be long. She shuts herself in the bathroom from nearly an hour. When I pass by, I hear only the low-memor of a voice gentle, so unlike how she's spoken to me, I imagine it's not her sister on the line, as something inside twists. Sleep barely comes that night. When I close my eyes, there's only a memory of Claire's body-pressed sounds, the way her hand gripped is shut. Sometime near 3am, I sit up, breathing shallowly, and stare into the dark, wondering what's left to salvage if anything. Monday is no better. Claire is up before dawn, already dressed, face-drawn with exhaustion or guilt or both.

36:05Early shift at the baker, she says, keeping her eyes averted. Her voice sounds normal, but the words are hollowed up. She moves quickly, not pausing for a goodbye kiss, just a light touch on my shoulder before she's out the door. My own day unfolds in a haze. At work, I stare at spreadsheets, barely registering their contents. Every notification on my phone spikes a jolt inside me, but it's never her. I try to call once around lunch, just to hear her voice, but she doesn't answer. My message goes unreturned. There's a heaviness to everything now, every passing eye, or every unfinished sentence. We're two bothers filling the same space but separated by an acrossable gulf. By Tuesday, even familiar routines feel foreign. Claire comes home late, claiming a payroll mixup at the bakery, tossing her bag onto the couch. She smells faintly of the perfume I've come to dread. When she joins me at the kitchen table, she speaks in short, neutral bursts about who day never once referencing the shelter, or Sam, with a wedding, unless I specifically ask. She says she's tired, but her energy is all wrong, hyper-vigilant, don't be brittle. She asks if I want to, I say yes, mostly to see what all habits feel like.

37:09She boils a kettle and fusses with the mugs. I watch her hands steady but tense. When I try to meet her eyes, she only holds my gaze for a split second before retreating behind steam and business. The following days go much the same, club gun before I'm up home late, phone always close. She's quick to offer explanations extra shift, new manager, one of the cats at the shelter sick, more errands. But everything sounds like a script learned for emergencies, not confessions. My trust once effortless is no negotiation every moment. Midweek, I reach my limit. Claire leaves her bag on the kitchen bench and heads to shower. The house is silent except for water hissing behind the door. I phone buzzes on the bench a single private sounding notification. I don't touch it, not this time. Instead, I set up the kitchen table and stare at the dish with her engagement ring, shining dolly in the grey morning light. I want to believe her. I really do. But my patience thins with every new dodge, every closed off answer. The cost of keeping the pieces measured in little indignities, not asking, not watching, pretending I haven't seen what I've seen. Inside, Dread is chewing holes in every wiki minute.

38:14That Thursday, Claire sits next to me on the couch, calling absent-mindedly on her phone while in all parks and record run plays. The moment commercial hits, she sets her device face dumb between us, but not before a catchable imps of Sam's name above a long blue speech bubble. I swallow, try to muster the voice to say something anything, but the words snag on the raw need to not start an argument I know will spiral out of my control. Instead, I stand, mumble something about needing water and leave her to her scrolling. Later, I hear her sighing through the half open bathroom door, pacing the tiles, breath ragged as if she's either crying quietly or struggling not to. Friday night, we're supposed to meet friends for trivia to dive by, a tradition that used to like Claire up. Her excitement is muted now, her spirit dimmed. When Sam arrives to late, apologetic, hair tells her to Claire's face flickers, pink rising on her cheeks. The easy rapport between them is unmistakable, even as they put on the facade of her just friend. At our table, Derek leans over, watching Sam and Claire whispering about the trivia sheet. So, are they off? He starts trailing off when he catches me watching. I want to laugh it off. I want to say of course not, Claire loves me, everyone knows that,

39:17we're just going through a rough patch. But all that rush is out as a hollow, automatic, they're just close, shelter stuff, you know how it is. Derek shrugs, but there's pideon in his eyes. Halfway through the second round, Claire offers to go grab natures from the bar. Sound jumps up to help. I count the seconds there away, then try not to watch the way they return, press just a little closer together, treating some joke they would explain. On the drive home, Claire stays out the window, fingers twining and entwining in her lap. Fun night, I say, to break the silence. She nods quiet. Didn't realise I was so tired, sorry if I was off. I consider asking her about Sam up right, right now, but the words die in my throat. I realise with the pang I'm afraid of her answer. We tumble into bed without touching, air thick and silent. The next morning brings grey light, the promise of rain, more of the same. Claire's phone rings early in a known number, but she answers with a chipper hey, that's not for me, I hear only half of sentences. Yeah, I'll check with Gregano, Sam said the crate cover worked fine last time. She flushes me a rough smile when she hangs up.

40:19Sorry, just the shelter, we need extra towels again. I nod, saying nothing. The weekend crawls along. Saturday night, Claire ducks up to meet Kelsey for cake tasting recon, but comes home with no new sweets, no review, only the same evasive smile. Her phone vibrates every half-hour she picks it up, thumb-flying, then pauses to turn her body away. My head feels too full, my stomach churns. I can barely look at her now without picturing that office, the yellow light, her hands and Sam's hair. Sunday arrives wet and cold again. I barely register the sound of Claire dressing, the familiar tagline of barfie mopping through the bedroom. I lie in bed, fainting sleep as she quietly closes the door and leaves for the shelter. No good bye, not even a promise to bring me coffee. I finally get up, sit on the edge of the bed, count the minutes. Every instinct in me screams to get up, go after her to confront the truth, I already know, but haven't spoken aloud. I'm more tired than angry. Every day since seeing them together has become a trial, watching her maneuver through lies with casual skill, watching myself perform normalcy in return. Today, though something shifts, I don't want to keep

41:22pretending. I pull on jeans, drag a hoodie over my head and make coffee a barely taste. At one point I catch myself standing in the kitchen, hands braced on the counter, breathing hard as if preparing for a race. The whole apartment feels foreign. I can't look at the ring dish without flinchy. Brain taps against the window. I piss the living room, thinking about all the things I could do next, call her out, demand she come home now, march into the shelter and make a scene. None of them feel right. My hands are trembling. I keep pulling out my phone and stirring at the photo, the blurry image of Claire and Sam in the shelter office, press so close at her. It's late afternoon. The rain turned heavy. Around five o'clock, I finally decide I can't delay anymore. The apartment is cold, the sky's sacking grey and close. I grab my keys, my jacket, and the stupid engagement ring in its dish. I pace, then sit, then pace again. I keep checking the street for her Subaru, wishing I was anywhere but here. With every passing minute, the certainty in my gut sets harder. At 630, a lock clicks. Place Depp's in, hair damp, cheeks live with colour I haven't

42:25seen in months. She pauses, eyes starting over my face. Hey, thought you'd be out, she says wearily. I stand heart in my throat. She slips off her shoes, shrugs out of her jacket as if nothing's changed. I can barely look at her without feeling nauseous. We need to talk. I say, and my voice is steadier than I expect. She senses it immediately, her posture tightening. Sure, but can I shower first? I'm freezing gardening with the dogs got me soaked. Now Claire. She glances past me as if looking for an exit, then squares her shoulders. Okay. Her tone is full casual, but her eyes are where. She stands by the kitchen window, arms crossed, waiting. I take out my phone. My hands do not shake now. The photo is already queued up, screencasting a cold glow in the dinners. I hold it up. What is this? Claire doesn't move at first. She looks at the screen, then launches, lips parting, eyes wide. For one jacket second, she seems caught on a wordless precipice denial, maybe, or terror. Why were you with some like that? My voice breaks on the

43:28last syllable. In silence, she lets out a strangled sound. You followed me? Don't turn this around, as nap. I saw you. I know. She stirs a meat, jaw clenched. Nothing happened. It's not what it she sees that is belief on my face, the photos damning evidence. Her voice falters. For a few seconds, I watch her fight through a dozen strategies anger, deflection, denial, but then she collapses into herself. Her mouth pulls tight, and she drops into the nearest chair, head in her hands. It started slow, she whispers. I never meant it just Sam and I, we got close, that made me feel alive again. I can't process her words. My hands ache from gripping the phone. How long? Months, she says, foyshaking. The synth spring, I tried to stop. I thought I could fix things with this. Her breath hitches. But with him, it was easier to forget everything else. I want this green to say something sharp, but I can't seem to breathe. Instead, I lean against the wall, just heaving. So it's all been a lie. Everything the brunches, the text, the ring. She stands,

44:30tears in her eyes, anger ringing in her voice. Don't act like you tried. Either you pulled away, two things haven't been right for months, I was lonely. My voice is small. Why didn't you just tell me? She shakes her head, almost laughing. Because I didn't want to break us, I was selfish and scared. Her tears spill over. I thought maybe I'd end up choosing you I wanted to, but then it got messy, and I kept lying, and lying, and I couldn't stop. The room feels hollow. The ring outside intensifies, the windows rattling gently in their frames. We stand there, nearer speaking, the only sound the shudder of her sobbing quietly, and my own heart pounding a jagged rhythm. Nothing about this is like I imagined in a betrayal. No screaming. Only exhaustion, and a pain I know will last. After a long silence, she wipes her face for his horse. I'm sorry, I really am, but I think you knew for a while, right? I nod the weight of it all pinning me in place. There's nowhere else to go into conversation, no resolution, only hard, unchangeable truth. I move to the counter, my limbs heavy, and pick up my backpack from the floor.

45:31I pack in a trance, grab in only where I need laptop, a few shirts, toothbrush, wallet. Player watches are moving, as I walk to the bedroom, pull a few clothes from the drawers. When I return, I set the engagement rain on the kitchen counter. For a second, her hand twitches to ward it, but she lets it be. She stands as I shoulder my bag, her mouth opening, closing, then opening again. I'm sorry, she repeats softer. I look at her really look one last time, memorizing the tired's lube of her shoulders, the tremor in her jaw. My fingers tremble, as I slide my keys onto the table, their jangle far too loud. Neither of us says anything more. The only sound between us is her muffled crying, as I step toward the door. I open it, and the cold air rushes in. As I cross the threshold, I glance back a final look at clestanding motionless in the kitchen's yellow light, her shadows stretching long across the tile. The air outside is sharp and wet, the street glistening in the downpour, the city silent except for the rain. Backs long over my shoulder, I walk away from what was supposed to be our home, each step lighter and heavier at once, my heart raw and emptied the taste of her absence on my tongue.

46:32And that is the end. Thank you for listening, and I will see you in the next one.