By 2 PM, I expected a break. Instead, I watched her struggle through the front door with six massive grocery bags. The red marks on her arms were visible even on the grainy 1080p feed.
She unpacked everything, then immediately started chopping vegetables. It wasn’t a simple meal; she was prepping the intricate lasagna I had casually mentioned craving two days ago. She wasn’t cheating on me; she was serving me.
I felt a strange sinking feeling in my gut, but my cynicism held on. *Maybe she’s cleaning up before he comes over,* I told myself. *Maybe this is the setup.* I kept watching, eyes burning.
Night fell. The house was spotless, the food was stored, and the lights were dimmed. This was it. 8 PM. This was when the doorbell would ring. I turned the volume up to max, waiting for the sound of a man’s voice.
But nobody came. Elena sat at the kitchen island, staring at a cold plate of leftovers. Then, she put her head in her hands. The audio picked up a sound that shattered my heart: ragged, silent sobbing.
She wasn’t waiting for a lover. She was waiting for *me*. And she knew I wasn’t coming home. She looked around the pristine house with a look of utter defeat, as if the shining floors were a prison cell.
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