I held the phone steady with both hands and took the first picture wide enough to show the living room, the couch, the wedding photo, and the TV clock in the corner of the screen. 12:13 a.m. Then another. Then closer. Tessa’s bracelet. Her hand on his chest. Caleb’s arm around her. The blanket. The wineglass on the coffee table with a lipstick smudge along the rim, soft rose, not my shade. A second glass near Caleb’s side, half full. A small white plate with crumbs from the rosemary crackers I had bought for Christmas Eve, unopened when I left for work.
Proof first.
Emotion later.
I switched to video.
Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. The low television audio. The slow rise and fall of their breathing. Caleb shifting slightly and tightening his arm around Tessa without waking. Her cheek pressing closer into his shirt.
That hurt more than the stillness.
The ease of it.
The familiarity.
People do not sleep like that by accident.