Awaiting Actor
Alone on the sofa, silence reigned but for the clock's ticking—each second sharpened panic. Dusk deepened; I stayed unlit, shadows engulfing me. Not awaiting a husband’s return, but an actor’s curtain call. Phone clenched, screen glowing cold on my face—Lia’s chat, Mark’s strawberry-cake photo displayed like evidence. Time stretched in numb agony. Finally, the key turned. Click. The door opened.
His Return
I sat in darkness, nails digging into palms. Outside, keys jingled; Mark’s weary voice: "Sweetheart? Home! Today drained me…" He entered, kicked off shoes, slid into slippers—routine perfected. "Lights off? Napping?" Confusion edged his tone. Click. He flicked the switch. Harsh light made me squint. He saw me rigid on the sofa, staring fixedly. "What’s wrong?" His smile faded. Approaching, brow furrowed, "So pale? Sick?" As always, he reached to feel my forehead. I jerked away. His hand froze mid-air; concern stiffened into bewilderment, then… wary tension. "Amy," he lowered his hand, voice soft but taut. "What happened?"
The Invitation
Wordless, I lifted my phone. Screen light glowed on my face. Fingertips tapped Lia’s photo, zooming in—each gilt letter cruelly sharp. I turned it squarely toward him. Mark’s expression slowed like film: confusion, shock at recognition, pupils contracting. Panic flashed before hardening into a mask. Too late—that fleeting void caught my eye. His throat bobbed. "Who… sent this?" Voice strained.
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