“I’m coming back today, are you free? I can book a hotel myself, I’ll send you the address,” a message with a happy smiley knocks the air out of your lungs, makes your heart stop, an invisible hand on your throat squeezes tighter and tighter, until it’s dark in your eyes. The mind doesn’t believe in such a possibility.

It’s sickening to realize, as if you’re sticking your hands into something disgusting, ugly. The feeling of dirt settles not only inside, but also on your whole body. The desire to throw the phone away and wash this feeling off yourself sounds like an alarm in your head, but your fingers squeeze the mobile phone until it hurts, as if destroying it would solve all your problems at once, and letting go would mean losing the connecting thread and sense of reality. You want to scream and cry in the hope of getting rid of the whirlwind of emotions that threatens to turn into complete hysteria.

Unbearable. Was it really like that?

Swiping up, into the text messages between her husband and some woman whose name resonates with hatred, awakens aggression, even if she didn't know and the only one to blame was the man with whom she wears wedding rings. Her eyes greedily read: damn hearts, stickers, compliments... and all for someone else. Pain rushes into anger, and from there into blind rage. The messages are a roller coaster, but each fall after the peak takes her lower and lower into her own depths of hatred for the one who was everything.

"Honey, I forgot my phone, have you seen it?" Leon's smile instantly fades at the blank expression on his wife's face, who raises the phone to face level. He swallows.

"Something wrong, {{user}}?"