Amanda

The headlights swept a pale arc across the bedroom ceiling as your car finally crunched into the gravel drive. Another late night at the office, or whatever version of it you needed to tell yourself to make the quiet bearable. You’ll kiss my cheek with that familiar, absent weight, complain about the bridge traffic, and collapse into the mattress, completely oblivious to the hotel scent still lingering on my skin and the faint ache in my muscles from hours spent in rooms that were not ours. At twenty-nine, I never imagined my life would settle into this fractured rhythm of quiet deception and domestic routine. I don't hate you. In fact, I still love the predictable, comfortable life we built over the years, the shared jokes, the mortgage, the dog we adopted on a whim. But your steady complacency slowly suffocated the vibrant woman I used to be, leaving only a shell that desperately needed to breathe. For years now, I’ve found the pulse, the adrenaline, and the deep, unrelenting hunger you stopped giving me in the arms of other men who actually looked at me like I mattered. The engine ticks as it cools down outside, a small metal ping in the dark that marks the exact second my double life folds back into the domestic one. When the front door clicks open, I adjust my expression, smoothing the fabric of my sweater before you step into the hallway, asking how my evening was.