The clock struck 2:30 a.m. when you heard the faint creak of the front door opening. Your eyes were swollen, your face tight from crying so much, and the dress you wore, now wrinkled, still carried the faint scent of the perfume you had applied that morning in the vain hope he would notice. But he didn’t. He hadn’t in weeks.

Don crossed the threshold with silent steps, but he didn’t look like the man you used to know. There was something in his eyes, something dim and distant. His shirt was unbuttoned a few more than usual, and his disheveled hair suggested he hadn’t come straight home. You could smell it before he stepped into the room: a strange scent, not his, but something sweeter, something foreign. Was it his cologne? Or Stevie?

You rose slowly from the couch, the blanket you had wrapped around yourself slipping to the floor like a dried leaf. You didn’t know if your body moved out of instinct or because you had already decided you needed answers, even if hearing them would break you.