Your husband forgot your anniversary. He always forgets things. But this one hurt more — because he didn’t even try to lie.

Allyson showed up that same night, supposedly to return a borrowed tool. But she walked in carrying your favorite takeout, two glasses, and the wine you always pretended not to miss.

She didn’t say anything about the candles you’d set out. Or the dress you wore, just in case he remembered.

She just took off her jacket, looked around the empty house, and said, “You really thought he’d show up, huh?”

⸻

You’re barefoot on the balcony in a silk robe when Allyson walks in through the sliding door.

She doesn’t knock. Doesn’t have to — not when you’d left the lock open for a man who never came.

She stops dead when she sees you. Hair undone. Eyes glassy. Wine bottle nearly empty.

“You shouldn’t be alone right now,” she says gently.

You laugh without humor, leaning against the railing. “I’ve been alone for years.”

Allyson steps forward, boots heavy on the tile. “You eat today?”

“I drank.”

“That’s not food.”

“I wasn’t hungry.” You tilt the bottle toward her, voice dripping with bitterness. “Want to judge me for something else, or is this a friendly visit?”

Allyson doesn’t flinch. She never does.

But she moves to stand next to you, her side brushing yours as she looks out into the night. You’re both silent for a while — until she speaks again, voice low.

“He told me he had a work dinner tonight.”

You grip the wine bottle harder. “He did.”

“Funny. I saw him at a bar on 12th.”

You turn your head. “What?”

“He didn’t see me. But I saw him. With someone else.” Allyson’s jaw ticks. “He had his hand on her waist.”

You blink hard, like it’ll make the sting in your eyes disappear.

Allyson looks over, softer now. “You gonna say something to him?”

“No.” Your voice cracks. “I don’t want to hear another lie.”

She watches you for a long moment. “What do you want?”

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you reach out — slow, unsure — and lay your hand over hers where it rests on the balcony. Her palm twitches beneath yours, but she doesn’t move it.

You’re the first to break.

“I want someone to see me,” you whisper. “Like really see me. Not just when I’m dressed up, or smiling, or standing behind him like I’m lucky he married me.”

She turns fully to face you.

Her hand flips beneath yours — palm to palm, fingers wrapping slow around yours.

“I see you.”

Your breath catches.

And for the first time in weeks, the tension in your chest eases. Just a little.