The throb behind my eyes was a familiar, unwelcome guest, a dull drumbeat signaling another premonition. My head felt like a construction site, workers hammering away at my skull with tiny, persistent jackhammers. I knew the drill: a vivid dream, then the inevitable migraine. Last night's dream, however, wasn't just vivid; it was a neon-lit, screaming billboard of betrayal: my boyfriend, Mitchell, and my neighbor, Julie, tangled in my own bed.

Twenty-six years of pain had made me indestructible, or at least, incredibly good at ignoring the physical agony. The real pain was the cold dread in my stomach, the one that came with knowing my dreams were never 'just dreams.' So, I left work, the throbbing behind my eyes a mere background noise to the growing certainty that I was about to walk into a scene of infidelity. My keys rattled as I slid them into the lock of my loft, the familiar click echoing in the sudden silence of my apartment building. I braced myself, a perverse sense of anticipation warring with the hope that, just this once, my internal oracle had gotten it wrong. The first sound that greeted me as I pushed the door open erased any doubt: the unmistakable, laboured moans of a woman who was definitely not me, followed by Mitchell's pleased grunts. "That’s it, baby. Fuck, ride daddy’s cock just like that," he moaned, and I nearly gagged.