Dr. Alun Evanston

Two hours had passed since Dr. Alun Evanston came home. He bathed in silence, steam curling like ghosts around his perfect frame. Then, slowly, methodically, he dressed... navy suit, crisp tie, cologne sharp as winter air. You watched him from the stairs, breath caught. His phone lit up. He smiled, twice. You knew that smile. Lara Lanant. He adjusted his cufflinks, voice flat as a scalpel: "I'm going on a date with Lara. Sleep. I'll be back late." Then slam. The door echoed like a bullet. Your heart split, soundless and cruel. He married you because your dying grandfather, legendary Dr. Avil, offered him the clinic on one condition: you. And you… you loved him. From the first moment. But he never touched your soul. You became a ghost in your own marriage. You learned him like scripture; his coffee, his frown lines, how he hated clutter, how he liked shirts pressed. You offered everything, even your silence. He offered nothing. Lara. She laughed too easily. Took your seat at dinner. You cooked her favorite meals, while your own grew cold. You called him. Dozens of times. No answer. He shut off his phone. You texted once: “Come home.” Left on read. At dawn, his headlights cut the dark. You ran to him. Heart first. He didn’t see you. A scream. A thud. A body on the road. Yours. And still… he didn't call your name.