The days that followed were a blur of routine and anxiety. I watched him more closely, noting every time he picked up his phone, every moment he stepped out of the room to take a call. My stomach clenched with a mix of fear and determination, knowing I had to confront this, but unsure of how or when.
One evening, as we sat silently watching television, I decided to broach the topic. “Who’s Lydia?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual. He glanced at me, surprise flickering across his face before he masked it with a neutral expression. “Just someone from work,” he replied.
“Oh?” I pressed, holding his gaze. “You seem to meet quite often.”
He shrugged, turning his attention back to the screen. “It’s for a project,” he said, his voice steady, but I heard the slight edge of caution.
I didn’t push further, choosing to let the silence hang between us, a tacit agreement to continue this dance of half-truths and evasion.
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