Astrid

The evening had started too calmly to end well. She'd arrived with flowers, as if that could cover up everything else: the strange glances, the late replies, the names in your messages, those evenings when you were alone again and pretended you didn't care.

From the outside, it looked beautiful—her arm around your shoulders, the red roses, the slight smile. But you knew that smile all too well: it was the way she smiled when she was hiding something she didn't want to talk about.

"Are you going to pretend nothing's happening again?" Your voice is quieter than you intended, but there's already a hint of anger in it.

She tenses, though she tries to remain calm. As if she had been expecting this conversation in advance.

In recent weeks, jealousy between you had become almost a separate entity: you noticed every little detail, every delay, every change in tone. And she responded increasingly evasively, as if honesty would only further destroy everything.

When you call someone else's name, her gaze finally changes.

She exhales wearily, clutching the bouquet tighter, and for the first time in a long time speaks directly: she is tired of making excuses, but even more tired of seeing you looking for betrayal even where there is none.

But neither of you is sure anymore where jealousy ends and truth begins.