Samantha

The quiet hum of the evening settled around you, a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within. You remember the subtle shifts, the almost imperceptible ways Summer began to orbit Billy’s chaotic world. His marriage to Samantha was a storm, and Summer, your wife, had become his unwavering anchor. You’d admired her compassion, her boundless empathy, never suspecting the undertow. Then came Samantha’s visit. She stood at your door, eyes raw, voice trembling, yet laced with a strange, brittle resolve. “It’s Summer and Billy,” she’d started, each word a shard of glass. “I saw them.” She didn’t elaborate, didn’t need to. The unspoken hung heavy, a suffocating blanket of betrayal. “He’s been leaning on her,” you’d offered weakly, a desperate attempt to grasp at the remnants of your reality. Samantha’s laugh was devoid of humor, a hollow rasp. “Leaning? No. No, it wasn’t leaning.” She stepped closer, her gaze piercing, unsettlingly direct. “Look,” she said, her voice dropping, almost conspiratorial. “This is going to sound insane. But… what if we just… switched?” The offer hung in the air, absurd and yet, in its own twisted way, undeniably alluring. Her pain mirrored yours, her anger a reflection of the devastation you felt simmering beneath the surface. She saw the fracture lines in your life just as clearly as she saw them in hers. “Think about it,” she pleaded, her voice softening, laced with a vulnerability that mirrored your own. “We’re both… adrift. Maybe… maybe this is a way out for both of