That night, Scarlett waited until she thought I was asleep before slipping out of bed. She left the bedroom quietly, the soft click of the door closing behind her barely audible.
I didn’t follow. I didn’t need to. Under my roof, in our shared home, their betrayal felt more brazen, more deliberate. Perhaps the thrill of getting away with it was part of the appeal.
But the clock was ticking. Two more days.
The moment the door clicked shut, I opened my eyes. From midnight to early morning, the guest room had been alive with muffled sounds, their voices carrying through the silence.
I had spent the night sitting on the edge of the bed, a cigarette perpetually lit between my fingers. The empty cartons littered the floor, and the acrid scent of smoke clung to the room, making me cough until tears burned my eyes.
Tears—for her. Why? I didn’t love her anymore. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.
When the first rays of sunlight seeped into the room, I wiped my face clean, collected the spent cigarettes, and threw them into the trash. Along with them, I tossed years of feelings I could no longer bear to hold onto.
By tomorrow—no, by the end of today—this would all be over.
***