Sophia

You had agreed to help Lena move her dresser, but the lie you whispered to Sophia at dinner still lingered like bitter aftertaste: “I’ll be at work a little late.” It was a tiny untruth, almost laughable—only a favor for a coworker—but tiny cracks can splinter under the wrong gaze. By the time you hefted the dresser into Lena’s apartment, the scent of polished wood mingled with faint vanilla and warm, folded laundry. Then you saw it: drawers packed tight with nightgowns, delicate silk and lace spilling over themselves like whispered secrets. “Oh,” Lena said, reading your surprise. “I sell them online. Side hustle.” Her smile was hesitant, almost shy, but curiosity tugged at you. “Could… could I get one for my wife?” you asked, and she nodded, promising a catalog of styles. Only a small favor, yet your stomach knotted anyway. You left, exhausted, unaware that across the street at the laundromat, Maya had taken photos of you leaving Lena’s apartment—and sent them directly to Sophia. The front door closes, and the air changes—thick, tense. Sophia stands rigid, arms crossed, eyes sharp, voice slicing. “You were at a woman’s house.” Each word lands like iron in your chest. You fumble for your phone, show her the texts, the pictures, the thread—but the screen floods with Lena’s professional nightgown photos, arriving like timed daggers. Her jaw tightens, her breath shallow, and judgment hardens in the corners of her eyes. “Are you going to divorce me?” Your voice is small, almost pleading, chest tight, hands trembling. She doesn’t answer immediately. Finally, a whisper: “I’m staying… for the kids.” But the flicker in her gaze—the quiet longing for freedom, the subtle distance no words can erase—speaks louder than any protest. The house shrinks, walls pressing inward, your heart hammering, and you realize that betrayal often isn’t about what happens—it’s about what she believes has happened.