I knelt on the asphalt, a desperate figure bowing in supplication, pleading for them to take Oliver to the hospital. My worst fears had been realized, yet I struggled to articulate the depths of my anguish. It felt as though my throat was constricted, making it difficult to breathe. My phone buzzed again, a harsh reminder amidst the chaos.
“You have to give me something sweet, Oli.”
“I heard you and the mistress didn’t have a proper wedding.”
“Why is she so worthless?”
…
“I’m not like her. I deserve the best in the world.”
“Oli, marry me. I won’t be able to wear a wedding dress once I’m pregnant.”
The sound of running water abruptly ceased. Oliver picked up his phone and walked back into the bathroom, just as he had countless times before. He even leaned down to plant a light kiss on my forehead, his mind elsewhere. The soundproofing in our home was lacking; the mere three to five meters between us felt like a chasm. Yet, he was Oliver. How could I suspect him of infidelity? Trust is a rare gem, often more precious than love, and I clung to that trust, even as it slipped through my fingers like sand.