Over the past month, my doubts had grown: I noticed a few minor things missing, small discrepancies here and there that I blamed on her carelessness.
First, a missing kitchen towel one morning; then some leftover food packets not put away properly.
A vague feeling that she was hiding something every time I came home early.
I tried to confront myself with reason, but the unease persisted.
On three separate evenings, I came back unexpectedly and found her looking startled, as if caught off guard or perhaps careless.
Each time, I chalked it up to my instincts sharpening.
Now, with an important meeting looming at work that could decide if I got a promotion or not, I was more restless than ever.
I kept worrying about every little thing—even the staffing in my apartment.
I knew I couldn’t afford distractions, and yet here I was, pretending to sleep, watching her move with a strange mix of suspicion and something closer to awe.
I didn’t know what I would do with this sudden unease when she moved towards the window and did something unexpected.
It was one small moment, but it cracked the foundation of what I thought was true.
And now, with the meeting just hours away, the silence between us felt heavier.
I was left waiting, unsure if trust or doubt would win, and certain only that the delicate balance was tipping toward something much harder to control.
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