"She won't take you back," Emily spat, her voice trembling with humiliation. "You broke the wedding picture, Harrison. It's over."
Harrison squeezed his eyes shut, the image of the shattered glass flashing behind his eyelids.
"It meant nothing," he whispered into the flat, stale pillow, clinging to the lie that he hoped would save him. "It meant absolutely nothing."
He lay there in the dark, listening to Emily cry softly on the other bed. He felt no urge to comfort her. He only felt a hollow, aching void in his chest where his wife used to be.
Chapter Four
Sarah
The sun came up. That was the first insult of the day. The world had ended at 10:15 PM the night before, yet the morning light still dared to crawl across the bedroom floor, highlighting the empty space on the left side of the mattress.
Sarah hadn’t slept. she had laid in the center of the bed, shivering, staring at the ceiling fan until the blades blurred into a gray vortex.
At 8:00 AM, her phone alarm chirped—a cheerful, rising melody intended to wake them up for work. She silenced it with a violent jab of her thumb.
She sat up. Her body felt bruised, heavy, as if she had fallen down a flight of stairs. She reached for the phone again. Her thumb hovered over Harrison’s name—instinct. She wanted to tell him she had a nightmare. She wanted him to fix it.
Then, the image flashed: The couch. The lack of a condom. The look on his face.
She dry-heaved, nothing coming up but bile.
She dialed her boss instead.
"Sarah?" David answered on the second ring. "Everything okay? You're usually at your desk by now."
"I..." Her voice was a rusted hinge. She cleared her throat, forcing professionalism through the stranglehold of grief. "David, I have a family emergency. A severe one. I won't be in for the rest of the week."
"Oh, god. Is everyone okay? Do you need—"
"I just need the time," she cut him off, unable to handle his kindness. If he was nice to her, she would shatter. "I’ll check emails remotely if I can, but I need to be offline."
"Take the time. Whatever you need."
She hung up and dropped the phone on the duvet. Then, she screamed. It wasn't a movie scream; it was a guttural, animalistic sound of pure agony that tore at her vocal cords. She grabbed Harrison’s pillow—smelling of cedar and the expensive shampoo she bought him—and buried her face in it, inhaling the ghost of the man she loved while sobbing until her ribs ached.
The next four days were a blur of dehydration and darkness.
Sarah moved through the house like a wraith. She avoided the living room. She couldn't look at the couch. She drank tap water and ate dry toast over the kitchen sink.
The worst part wasn't the anger. It was the longing.
Every time the floorboards settled, she thought it was his key in the lock. Every time a car drove past, her heart leaped—is he coming back?
She caught herself bargaining with God, with the universe. Maybe if I just ignore it. Maybe if we go to therapy. Maybe if he begs hard enough.
She missed his weight in the bed. She missed the way he made coffee. She missed her best friend.
But then, the logic—her architect’s brain—would snap the blueprint back into focus.
He didn't use protection.
He did it with your sister.
He did it in your sanctuary.
The structural integrity of the marriage was gone. The foundation was dissolved. You can't renovate a house that hasfallen into a sinkhole; you can only condemn it.
