The room was too small to hide secrets.
Our apartment had always been cramped, a single bed pushed against the wall, a sagging couch we found on the curb, and barely enough space for the two of us to breathe. I used to think it was romantic in its own way, how we could bump into each other in the kitchen and laugh, how his warmth filled every corner.
But tonight, the room felt suffocating.
The door creaked when I pushed it open. I knew before I even saw it. The air inside was thick, heavy, and felt… wrong.
Clothes scattered on the floor. Luxurious shoes that weren't mine. Soft whispers turning into muffled giggles.
And then — there he was. My husband. My savior. The man who once held my trembling hands and swore he'd protect me from the world. Now lying in our bed with someone else.
Her hair spilled across the pillow, her laugh childish and breathless as she clung to him, then embarrassed as she looked at me. He followed her gaze, and stared. He didn't even look guilty. Just startled, then annoyed, as if I had intruded on something he deserved.
"Wait — what a are you —" he started.
But the words burned in my ears before he could finish.
The bed was too small for lies, yet here they were, tangled in them.
I stood frozen, my heart splintering in the same space that once sheltered us both. And in that moment, I understood that love couldn't keep two hungry stomachs alive.
And mine was already empty.
· ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The diner smelled of grease and cheap coffee. My uniform clung to me with the sourness of long shifts, and my hands stung from washing dishes in water that was always too hot. I was used to it. Survival didn't care about comfort.
The bell above the door chimed. I glanced up, more out of habit than curiosity. Customers were customers — most just wanted food, not conversation.
But the man who walked in wasn't like the others.
He carried the kind of presence that made the air heavier, like every step he took claimed the space as his. Black suit, sharp eyes, movements too smooth for someone just looking for a late meal. People noticed him — they always noticed men like him.
Men like him never looked at women like me.
I wasn't the kind of girl who turned heads. Not anymore. I was aging too fast, worn down by long hours, bad sleep, and a life that scraped me thin until I felt more like a rug than a woman. Someone stepped on, dirtied, and forgotten.
And yet, his gaze landed on me.
I don't know why, but when our eyes met, my skin prickled. He didn't look at me the way my husband did, with boredom or fleeting amusement. He looked at me like was studying me, as if I were a puzzle worth the time.
"Coffee," he said when he finally sat down. His voice was deep, steady. The kind that left no room for refusal.
I nodded, trying not to stare, but the truth was—I couldn't ignore him. Not when his eyes followed me across the diner, not when his silence felt heavier than words.
That night, he was just another customer. At least, that's what I told myself as I set the cup of coffee in front of him.
But something in my gut whispered otherwise.
Because when he looked at me, really looked—
It felt like he saw the parts of me I thought I'd buried.
And I hated how, for a moment, I almost felt… seen.