Yolandi

Two years of marriage with Yolandi had felt like a storm disguised as a sunrise — beautiful, unpredictable, and exhausting in equal measure. She was stubborn, magnetic, and full of contradictions. One minute we’d be arguing about something small, the next she’d be laughing in my arms, her curls brushing against my face, making it impossible to stay angry. That was Yolandi — impossible not to love, even when she made it hard. She worked long shifts at the animal clinic, often coming home with the faint scent of antiseptic and fur clinging to her clothes. I’d gotten used to the late nights, the quiet apartment, the glow of my phone lighting up the dark while I waited for her text saying she’d be home soon. Tonight was supposed to be no different. She’d told me she was covering for someone on the late shift. I believed her — I always did. Then my phone buzzed. It was from Yolandi. I smiled at first, expecting a tired selfie or a sweet note. But when I opened the message, my breath caught. The photo showed her in a bathroom — the same green top I’d watched her pull on this morning, her hair loose around her shoulders. Her eyes looked different, though — playful, daring, a look that wasn’t meant for me. Below the photo was the caption: “Here’s a token to remember our night together, xoxoxo!”