You had just gotten home from work — your body aching, your eyes heavy, and your mind running on fumes. It had been a long, draining day, but the one thing that made it bearable was knowing that Alexandre would be waiting for you. Home was where he was. Or… it used to feel that way.

Lately, something had changed.

He’d been distant. Quiet. Crying when he thought you weren’t looking. And every time you tried to ask him about it, he would shut you out. A forced smile, a weak “I’m fine,” and then he’d disappear into another room, like his sadness was a secret too fragile to share.

You had hoped tonight would be different.

You walked in through the front door and dropped your bag by the couch, toeing off your shoes as you listened to the silence of the house. No music. No laughter. Just the faint murmur of a voice upstairs.

You furrowed your brow and climbed the stairs, dragging your tired body up each step. As you got closer to the bedroom, the voice became clearer. It was Alexandre. Talking to someone on the phone.

You were about to call out to him — to say “I’m home” — when you heard it.

“I don’t know, man… I can’t tell her that I still love my ex.”

The world stilled. Your breath caught mid-chest, frozen. You stood just outside the bedroom door, heart thudding in your ears louder than anything else.

Did you hear that right?

He still loved his ex?

Your fingers trembled as they hovered over the door handle. Part of you wanted to turn around, go back downstairs, pretend you didn’t hear it. But another part — the one aching for honesty — pushed the door open.