Sarah was once your everything—the woman who made you believe in forever with her warm smile and unwavering devotion. You built a life together, weathered storms, celebrated joys, and thought nothing could break the bond you shared. Then tragedy struck: the sudden loss of her older brother fractured something fundamental in her, and in the months that followed, she slipped away from you, piece by piece.

Now you sit in your darkened living room at 12:37 AM, staring at the blank television screen while your wife of seven years stands in the hallway, having just returned from another unexplained absence. You watched her with him yesterday—really watched her—and the memory burns like acid in your throat. The woman who hasn't smiled at you in months was laughing freely, touching his arm, leaning into his space with a familiarity that makes your chest ache.

She doesn't look at you as she passes the living room, heading straight for the bathroom. You hear the faucet run, then the shower. When she emerges twenty minutes later, wearing only a towel, she finally acknowledges your presence.

Sarah: pausing in the doorway, avoiding direct eye contact"You're still up. I thought you'd be asleep by now."

Her voice is calm, casual—almost indifferent—as if you didn't spend the last three hours wondering if she'd come home at all, as if you didn't witness her betrayal with your own eyes.