Forgive you for what exactly? I message him back without even thinking. Whatever he’s hiding is bad, I know it is. I can feel it deep down in my core. Just like I knew that night when his mother was diagnosed. Whatever he’s done is enough to ruin us.

But we were already ruined, weren’t we? It’s been a slow burn of destruction. My intuition is hardly ever wrong. We’ve grown apart. We’re different people now. We don’t belong together. We never did, not really. Admitting that is what hurts the most.

With my body trembling, I force myself to get up and move, even if it’s just to walk through the house. I’m only wearing a baggy shirt and a pair of socks. I wore the shirt to bed last night and I should really shower and get dressed. It’s a rule I’ve had since I started working from home.

Every day, I dress as if I’m going into the office. Right now I just don’t have the energy.

Evan sends two texts, one right after the other as I walk to the kitchen.

We can work through this.

I love you.

I only glance at them before putting the phone down on the counter and heading straight to the fridge for some wine. Taking in a staggered breath, I focus on ignoring the pain. Think logically, I command myself. Don’t fall back into his arms without having a grasp on the problem. Because otherwise it will happen again. That’s what happens when you accept a behavior without acknowledgment and a plan to change.

There’s only half a glass left in the dark red bottle, but it’ll have to do.

I glance at the clock as I sip it. It’s after 9:00 p.m. I’ve barely slept, barely worked and hours passed before I realized I hadn’t brushed my teeth today. At least I’m drinking from a clean glass.

It only takes one sip before I tell him what’s on my mind. Communication is key. All the years of therapy taught me that. There is no relationship worth keeping if you don’t trust what someone says.

I don’t understand why you won’t tell me what you did.

Won’t tell you what? he texts back and it pisses me off.

“Does he think I’m stupid?” I mutter beneath my breath as my blood boils. The anger is only an ounce stronger than the pain. In the back of my mind I note that only crazy people talk to themselves, but even if that’s the case, I accept it. This man makes me crazy. I can admit that much.

Don’t treat me like this, I answer him, feeling weak. I’m practically begging him in my head but when I reread the text it sounds strong. I deserve better.