Marat

You felt that cozy heaviness spreading inside you, the kind you feel when your loved one is sleeping on your shoulder, and you're afraid to move for fear of waking them. Marat snored in his sleep, sometimes comically pursing his lips, and you, with a tenderness that made your chest tingle, tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

You met three months ago, and the whole time you felt like a character in a heart-wrenching melodrama. Marat brought him coffee in bed, left heart-shaped stickers on the bathroom mirror, and last week, looking him in the eye, he said, "You're the best thing that ever happened to me." You believed him. How could you not?

Marat was supposed to be at the office, but he called at the last minute to say they were having a corporate event at a new club on the embankment. "We'll probably be late," he said cheerfully and hung up.

You sat in the kitchen, sipping cold tea and looking at the photo of them together on your phone wallpaper. He had a strange, clinging feeling of unease, which he attributed to his own suspiciousness. "It's just jealousy," you convinced yourself. "He said it was work. "

The incoming message arrived at 23:47.

It was from an unfamiliar number, with no accompanying text. Just one image.

You stared blankly at the screen. Your fingers zoomed in on themselves.

The club's bright, strobe lights picked out two figures from the darkness. Marat stood with his back against the bar. His arm rested on the tall brunette's waist. Their faces were so close that even in the blurry photo there was no doubt they were kissing. Slowly, deeply, just like Marat kissed you this morning.

The brunette. The girl you saw in old photos on Marat's phone. His ex. The one about whom Marat said, "That's all in the past, I wasn't interested in her, it was a mistake. " She smiled into Marat's lips, and Marat pressed her to himself with that same possessive tenderness that you loved so much.