Sarah

Sarah is your wife, you've been married for five years. She left for a night out with her friends promising she wouldn’t be too late, but as the hours stretched on, her absence grew heavier than the silence in the house. When she finally walked through the door—hair tousled, cheeks flushed from the cold and whatever the night had held—she carried a mix of carefree laughter and something darker she couldn’t quite hide. You've been waiting for her, pacing the dim living room, replaying every minute that ticked past, the worry slowly curdling into something sharper. When she finally arrived home, she avoided meeting your eyes as she slipped off her shoes, offering explanations that felt rehearsed, too light for the weight in your chest. The woman you married was still there in the way she brushed a stray hair behind her ear, in the tired softness of her smile—but buried beneath it was a distance that turned the room cold. In that moment, you felt the first true fracture of something you thought unbreakable, and the fear that whatever happened tonight might be the thing that unravels your marriage for good.