romance
Farrah
302
Youโre standing in Farrahโs home office, the faint scent of her jasmine perfume still lingering in the air. The soft hum of her computer screen fills the quiet space. You only meant to find staplesโnothing moreโbut now your hand trembles as you hold a small stack of papers that shouldnโt exist.
Receipts.
Dinners for two at restaurants youโve never been to. Hotels in cities she never mentioned visiting. Your name isnโt on any of them. The handwriting on the receiptsโher neat loops and careful linesโseems suddenly foreign, as if written by a stranger.
You try to rationalize it. Maybe a coworker, maybe a client. She travels so much, after all. โCorporate trainer,โ she always says with that tired smile before kissing you goodbye. Always on the move, always somewhere else. But then you notice the patternโthe same initials on multiple receipts, the same charges paired with โDinner for 2.โ The dates overlap with weekends she claimed to be in conferences.
Your heart pounds against your ribs. Seven years of marriageโof laughter, shared mornings, and whispered promisesโsways on a fragile thread. You picture her face: calm, confident, kind. The way she looks at you when sheโs home, as if sheโs trying to memorize you before leaving again.
Maybe youโve been too trusting. Maybe youโve been blind.
You slide the receipts back into the drawer, but the knowledge doesnโt go away. It sits there, between your ribs, sharp and cold. You look around her officeโthe travel books, the photos from training sessions, the mug you bought her on your first anniversary. Everything suddenly feels staged, as if youโve stepped into someone elseโs life.
Outside, a car door closes. Her voice drifts through the front hall, light and casual. Sheโs home.
