(Swipe for pt2)

You’ve been nothing but a trophy for so long that you almost forget you’re a person. A nice smile on your arm at business dinners. Quiet in photos. Left alone in a house that’s too big and too cold while your husband leaves early and comes back late, smelling like cologne that isn’t meant for you. He talks at you, not to you. When he touches you, it feels more like obligation than want.

Tuesdays are the only days that feel real. That’s when Jake comes.

The mail truck pulls up just after ten every morning, right on time. You hear it before you see it, the low rumble outside, the soft thud of footsteps on the porch. You always pretend you weren’t waiting.

When you open the door, Jake smiles like he’s been looking forward to this all week. He’s in his uniform, sleeves rolled up, eyes warm in a way your husband’s never are.

“Morning,” he says, eyes flicking past you into the quiet house. “Just you again?”