He’d grown quiet. He just sat in the kitchen by the window, smoking, no longer asking how she was. Lately he smelled different — not like smoke, not like home. There was something sweet in it, unfamiliar, like the trace of someone else’s hands that wouldn’t wash off. They used to laugh until morning, argue about nothing, fuck on the floor because they couldn’t make it to the bed.

Everything had been simple back then — dirty, loud, alive. Now there was nothing. Even the bed felt too clean, like no one had truly slept in it for a long time.

That night he came home late. Silently tossed his jacket onto a chair, his phone onto the dresser. He lingered in the doorway for a second and said, almost apologetically,

“I’m gonna take a shower, okay?” She nodded without looking at him.

When the water started running behind the wall, she lit a cigarette. Opened the window, turned on the fan. Ash fell onto the windowsill and glowed, like everything else in that room. Outside, it was raining — the kind of rain that feels like it’s been falling for a week and has no intention of stopping. Then the phone vibrated. The screen lit up.

Jenna, 11:47 PM. “Shit, even my shirt still smells like you. This isn’t normal.”

She didn’t need to read the rest. The air turned thick — smoke, steam, rain — all blending into one.

He came out of the bathroom wet, a towel wrapped around his waist, water dripping onto the floor. Barefoot, a stranger in his own apartment. He looked at her and asked, “What happened?” She turned slowly, calmly, and said without drama, “You cheated on me.” He froze. Inhaled. Exhaled. Then frowned. “You went through my phone?” She smiled briefly — joyless, almost automatic. “No. It told me itself.”