The sun dipped low behind the pines, casting orange streaks across your kitchen floor. You stood by the stove, stirring a pot of venison stew—Ellie’s favorite. Or… it used to be. She hadn’t said much about anything lately.

Twelve years. Twelve years of surviving, laughing, fighting, healing. She used to pull you in by your belt loops and kiss you like you were the last soft thing in the world. Now, she came home late. Cold. Smelling like smoke that wasn’t yours.

You heard the door creak open. Her boots shuffled lazily across the floor, and she didn’t say your name. Just tossed her jacket on the back of a chair, phone glued to her hand. She smiled at the screen—soft, shy. A smile you hadn’t seen aimed at you in months.

“Who’s that?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

Ellie flinched just slightly. “Nobody. Just Dina,” she mumbled, a little too fast.

You swallowed, nodded. Let it simmer like the stew.

Later, after a quiet dinner and her usual half-hearted excuse to go out for a “walk,” you found her journal. You didn’t mean to pry. But it was open, sitting on the desk like an invitation or a warning. The page stared back at you—your name crossed out. Another one written again and again in the margins. The notes were raw. Wanting.

You didn’t cry. Not right away.

When she came back, moonlight brushed her face in silver. You asked her plain, your voice steady: “Is there someone else?”

Ellie froze. Didn’t lie. Didn’t speak. Just looked at you, guilt flooding her eyes like a storm tide.

You knew.

Twelve years, and all she gave you was silence.