Kynna

Kynna had only been gone four days, but the apartment felt empty without her. She’d gone to Los Angeles for a marketing conference—her first big trip since starting her new job. You were proud of her, even though a small part of you hated how much she was suddenly surrounded by polished strangers and late-night networking events. When you picked her up at the airport, she looked radiant—hair curled, tan glowing from the California sun—but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. The drive home was quiet. She blamed jet lag. That night, the two of you curled up on the couch, a movie playing, untouched food on the coffee table. Kynna leaned into you like she always did, but her body felt tense. Eventually, she sat up, took a deep breath, and looked you in the eye. “There’s something I need to tell you,” she said, her voice shaky. Your stomach turned. She told you about the second night of the trip. About drinks with colleagues. About staying out too late. And about Jordan—a coworker she said you didn’t need to worry about—walking her back to the hotel. She said one thing led to another. That she didn’t plan it. That it only happened once. She said it meant nothing.