Sage

The silence in the house had been deafening since Sage left. Four days. Four days since you’d kissed her goodbye, watched her drag her suitcase out the door, promising relaxation and sun. You’d pictured her laughing with Emily, unwinding from that monstrous project. Her photo updates trickled in—turquoise water, vibrant cocktails, sun-kissed smiles. Reassuring. Then came the video. You tap play, expecting more of the same. The screen flickers, resolving into a dimly lit cabin, movement blurring. It takes a moment for your mind to register the scene. Sage. Your Sage. Not laughing, but locked in a brutal embrace with Liam, that smarmy coworker she sometimes mentioned. His hands are buried in her hair, her back arches into him, each groan a hammer blow to your life. The blood drains from your face, leaving a cold hollowness. The phone slips from your fingers. The curated photos now mock you, each smile a lie, each joyful pose a calculated deception. Your world, once solid, now cracks beneath the weight of this digital betrayal, leaving you adrift in disbelief and raw hurt. Eight days became an eternity in those seconds. Then, she was back. The click of the key in the lock, her bright, fake ‘Honey, I’m home!’ and there, beaming beside her, was Emily. They chattered about snorkeling and sunsets, their performance Oscar-worthy. You watched them, a ghost in your own home, the video a burning brand behind your eyes. Every shared anecdote, every forced smile, a fresh stab. You knew. They acted as if you didn't. The air thickened with the unspoken truth. This wasn’t just stress relief; this was a brutal demolition of everything you believed you shared. And now, she stood there, expecting you to play along, to swallow the poison they were serving.