Frozen1 I Regret Every Day I Spent With You, My Wife Said, Completely Flat I Took Off My Ring And

Описание: "I Regret Every Day I Spent With You," My Wife Said, Completely Flat. I Took Off My Ring And...
Probably came from years of watching me ignore warning signs until they became emergencies. I typed back: “Sure. Two o’clock?” and then set the phone down, my mind already racing.

Sienna’s departure left the house unnervingly quiet. The hum of the refrigerator, the faint drip from the kitchen faucet, the muted tapping of rain against the windows—all of it seemed louder, more deliberate, as if the world itself was pointing out what I’d refused to see.

I opened a fresh terminal window and started reviewing network logs, but my attention kept drifting. Patterns. I couldn’t stop thinking in patterns. There were too many inconsistencies: the sudden early-morning packing, the last-minute hotel reservations, the vague excuses that never matched up with airline itineraries I could trace online. She’d always been careful, but not meticulous. Not like me.

I poured a cup of coffee, black, and let it steam in my hands. My gut tightened as I replayed every business trip she’d mentioned in the last six months. Every itinerary I had subconsciously filed away. I compared them to hotel booking records I had access to through work. Subtle mismatches leapt off the screen. Reservations under slightly different names. Same hotels, different dates than she’d claimed.

I wasn’t angry yet. Not really. This wasn’t about anger. It was about data. And data doesn’t lie.

By mid-morning, I’d compiled a spreadsheet. Columns for dates, times, cities, hotel names, and reasons she’d given me for travel. Each row was a silent accusation, and the patterns began to emerge: trips that coincided with texts deleted from her phone, charges on our joint card that didn’t align with any legitimate conference or meeting, and flights booked under slight variations of her initials.

I didn’t need proof of infidelity. I needed understanding. I needed clarity.

Around noon, I grabbed an umbrella and headed out. Fiona’s café was a ten-minute drive away, the streets slick and gleaming under the persistent rain. I watched people hurry past, umbrellas angled against the wind, faces hidden. Anonymous. Safe. Unlike me, watching every detail of the life I thought I had.

Fiona greeted me with a knowing smile. “You’ve got that look,” she said, pouring my coffee before I even ordered. “The one that says you’ve seen something you weren’t supposed to.”

I sipped the hot brew. Bitter. Clean. Necessary. “It’s… nothing,” I said, but my voice lacked conviction.

She leaned across the table. “Eliot, you know me. I can tell when someone’s lying to you. And it’s not the little stuff. It’s the patterns. I see it in your posture, your timing, the way your fingers drum on the table. She’s lying. Again.”

I stared out the window at the rain-slicked street, the gray sky pressing down on everything. Fiona was right. I knew she was. Six months of inconsistencies, six months of subtle omissions, six months of silence filled with hidden conversations, secret phone calls, and unexplained charges.


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