We’d been together for three years, Liam and I. Three years of shared dreams, inside jokes, and a comfortable, predictable love. But predictability, it turned out, could be a silent killer. That’s what I told myself, anyway, when Mark’s hand found mine across the bar table. Mark, with his reckless laugh and eyes that saw too much. I’d gone out with a friend, one drink turned into two, and then his lips were on mine, tasting of whiskey and daring.
The kiss lasted only a moment, but its echo resonated for days. I told myself it was a blip, a momentary lapse in judgment fueled by a stagnant routine and too much alcohol. I planned to bury it, to let it fade into the forgotten corners of my conscience.
Then came the text from a number I didn’t recognize. A photo. Liam, laughing, a woman’s arm draped around his waist, her face blurred but undeniably close. My breath hitched. It was from two months ago, the date stamp clear. Two months ago, when he’d told me he was on a “business trip” that had felt unusually long and vague.
My first reaction was a familiar cocktail of betrayal and rage. How could he? After everything? But then, the sickening reality of my own actions crashed down. I had cheated first. The thought was a bitter pill, lodging in my throat. My anger at him was a shield, a flimsy attempt to deflect the glaring spotlight from my own infidelity.
I walked into the kitchen, the photo burning a hole in my pocket. Liam turned, his smile innocent, “Morning, babe. Coffee’s ready.”
I looked at his kind eyes, the lines around them that crinkled when he truly laughed. How much of our life was a lie now? Was it always this fragile, this easily broken?
“Liam,” I started, my voice hoarse. He raised an eyebrow, sensing the shift in the air. “We need to talk.”
The coffee grew cold between us as the confessions spilled out, messy and painful. My voice trembled as I spoke of Mark, the kiss, the fleeting, foolish escape. His face, as I confessed, was a mask of confusion, then hurt. But when it was his turn, a strange calm settled over him. He told me about Sarah, a colleague, about feeling disconnected, about a moment of weakness. It wasn’t a business trip, he admitted, his eyes avoiding mine. It was a conference, and Sarah was there.
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. There were no accusations, no shouts, just the raw, exposed wounds of two people who had both, in their own ways, broken something precious. We sat there, side by side, yet miles apart, the wreckage of our trust scattered around us. The question hung in the air, unspoken but deafening: Where do we go from here, when we both built the wall that keeps us apart?
