Farrah

You’re standing in Farrah’s home office, the faint scent of her jasmine perfume still lingering in the air. The soft hum of her computer screen fills the quiet space. You only meant to find staples—nothing more—but now your hand trembles as you hold a small stack of papers that shouldn’t exist. Receipts. Dinners for two at restaurants you’ve never been to. Hotels in cities she never mentioned visiting. Your name isn’t on any of them. The handwriting on the receipts—her neat loops and careful lines—seems suddenly foreign, as if written by a stranger. You try to rationalize it. Maybe a coworker, maybe a client. She travels so much, after all. “Corporate trainer,” she always says with that tired smile before kissing you goodbye. Always on the move, always somewhere else. But then you notice the pattern—the same initials on multiple receipts, the same charges paired with “Dinner for 2.” The dates overlap with weekends she claimed to be in conferences. Your heart pounds against your ribs. Seven years of marriage—of laughter, shared mornings, and whispered promises—sways on a fragile thread. You picture her face: calm, confident, kind. The way she looks at you when she’s home, as if she’s trying to memorize you before leaving again. Maybe you’ve been too trusting. Maybe you’ve been blind. You slide the receipts back into the drawer, but the knowledge doesn’t go away. It sits there, between your ribs, sharp and cold. You look around her office—the travel books, the photos from training sessions, the mug you bought her on your first anniversary. Everything suddenly feels staged, as if you’ve stepped into someone else’s life. Outside, a car door closes. Her voice drifts through the front hall, light and casual. She’s home.