Where are you, Albert?
The question echoed endlessly in my mind, bouncing off the walls of my skull until it became unbearable. It repeated itself over and over, louder each time, until it felt like it was screaming instead of whispering. I pressed my palms firmly against my temples, as though I could physically stop the thoughts from forming.
Why do I feel this way?
The question slipped from my lips, fragile and trembling, barely audible even to me.
Because you do not want to admit that your fear is happening, a voice responded calmly inside my head—steady, merciless, and cruelly honest.
"No," I whispered, shaking my head. "No, that's not it."
But I knew I was lying.
I didn't want to engage that voice. I didn't want to hear the truth it carried. Every word it offered felt like a blade being pressed slowly into my chest, deliberate and precise.
Albert is with June.
The sentence landed with devastating finality.
"No!" I shouted suddenly, my voice cracking as tears spilled freely down my cheeks. My knees buckled beneath me, and I sank onto the edge of the couch, clutching at my chest as though my heart might tear itself free. "Stop! Please stop… I don't want to hear anymore."
But the voice didn't need to continue. The damage was already done.
I cried until my eyes burned and swelled, until my throat ached and my chest felt raw and hollow. I cried for the woman I was becoming—suspicious, fearful, unraveling. I cried for the marriage I was desperately trying to protect, for the love I had trusted so blindly. I cried for the girl I used to be, the one who believed love alone was enough.
When the tears finally slowed, exhaustion replaced them.
I dragged myself to the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, and stared at my reflection in the mirror. I barely recognized the woman looking back at me. Her eyes were red-rimmed and hollow, her face drawn with tension and unanswered questions.
Enough, Susan.
I straightened my shoulders.
I needed the truth—not assumptions, not fear, not imagination. I needed to hear it directly, plainly, from Albert's mouth.
That night, I refused to sleep.
I sat upright on the couch, my body tense, my senses sharpened by anticipation. The house felt unnaturally quiet. Every tick of the wall clock echoed loudly. Every sound outside made my heart leap into my throat.
Hours passed.
Then, finally, a soft knock came at the door.
My heart slammed violently against my ribs.
"Babe?" Albert's voice floated through the door. "Are you awake?"
I stood slowly, my legs stiff but steady. I opened the door without a word and stepped aside to let him in.
Albert walked in and stopped abruptly in the living room. He dropped his briefcase near the door and released a long, exaggerated sigh, rubbing the back of his neck like a man weighed down by the world.
I watched him closely.
The act didn't move me.
"Albert," I said firmly, my voice calm in a way that surprised even me, "I need to know where you've been—and why you're coming home at this time of night."
He turned to look at me, confusion flashing across his face as though I had spoken in a foreign language. Then he straightened, composing himself.
"I'm sorry, Susan," he said evenly. "The meeting ran late."
"What meeting?" I asked immediately.
He frowned. "Come on, babe. I told you earlier about the meeting with a client."
"No," I replied, shaking my head slowly. "Albert… there was no client meeting in your office today."
His eyes widened just slightly. "What?"
"You heard me," I continued. "There was no meeting."
I paused, then added quietly, "I didn't just call the office. I went there."
The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating.
Albert stared at me, shock flashing briefly across his face before irritation replaced it.
"What is wrong with you, Susan?" he snapped. "Have you started monitoring me now? You went to my office?"
He focused on that—on my actions—completely avoiding the question that mattered.
I didn't flinch.
"That doesn't answer my question," I said steadily. "Where were you?"
Rage surged inside me, hot and uncontrollable. I was tired—tired of the late nights, the half-truths, the fear, the constant unease. I was tired of feeling like I was losing my sanity while everyone else pretended nothing was wrong.
"Why is it so hard for you to say it?" I continued. "Is it because you were with June?"
The words fell heavily between us.
Albert stiffened.
Despite the cool night air, tiny beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.
"What?" he asked sharply, his eyes wide.
"You heard me," I said, my heart racing so fast it felt like it might burst. "You were with June. She's been the cause of all this lately, hasn't she?"
He stood up slowly, deliberately, as though weighing every movement.
"So now you're accusing me?" he asked. "And falsely, too?"
He picked up his briefcase and looked at me with disbelief. "You think I'm cheating on you with June?"
His laugh was sharp and humorless. "You are unbelievable."
He turned and walked toward the bedroom.
I watched him go, my chest tight.
He was angry—but beneath the anger, I saw something else.
Fear.
I followed him with my eyes but didn't move. I refused to let his tone shake me this time. If he had nothing to hide, why was he so defensive? Why avoid the truth?
That night, I chose the couch.
As I lay there in the dim light of the living room, staring at the ceiling, something strange happened.
There was no rage.
No pain.
No fear.
Just emptiness.
A hollow stillness settled deep inside me, heavier than tears, heavier than anger. It scared me more than any argument ever could.
Because when a woman feels nothing at all, it means something inside her has already begun to break.
And I knew—deep down—that whatever was happening between Albert and June…
It wasn't over.