Familiar Cage
Pushing the door open, I paused in the foyer. His worn sneakers sat on the rack. The sofa we’d debated over weekends ago stood in the living room—forest-green cushions, my pride, still tossed casually. His cedarwood aftershave lingered—once comforting, now mocking props on a stage. Me, the fooled audience. My gaze landed on his gray tee, slung over a chair back last night. I picked it up. Fabric held his faint sweat and laundry scent—once "home." Nausea surged. I dashed to the bathroom, kneeling before the toilet, retching violently. Tears welled—not from sorrow, but visceral disgust at the betrayal.
Hunting Proof
Couldn’t be. Not just one invitation and words. What if… a mistake? A different Mark? Lia misidentified? (Impossible.) I needed proof. Cold clarity returned, steadying me. To the study. Mark’s study. He sometimes worked here. Laptop on the desk. Booted up. Password required. Our anniversary. Ha. Unlocked. Desktop tidy. Work folders. Heart hammered like a thief—no, thief-catcher. Opened the browser.
History wiped clean. Email. Password saved, but secondary verification needed—his phone blocked that. Social apps? None installed. Scanned the desktop. A folder: "Investment Plans." Legitimate. Opened. PDFs inside. Mortgage quotes. Fund suggestions. And… a printed floor plan. Cloud Haven. Tower C, Unit 1802. The complex Lia named. The layout we chose. Pencil scribbles faded on the print: "Lia wants a big closet." "Her vanity here." "Flowers for her on the balcony." His handwriting. Confirmed. Snap! I slammed the laptop shut. The noise echoed in the silence. Proof found. Cold. Definitive. Final delusion shattered.
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