Rita couldn’t sleep.

Not when the bed was cold on your side again and the clock flashed 2:17 AM in that ugly red glow that only made the room feel lonelier. The TV was still humming quietly in the living room, casting shadows across the hallway from where you had left it on hours ago.

She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, curling into the pillow you had last used—the one that still smelled like your shampoo, your skin, like comfort—yet it wasn’t working anymore.

You had been coming home later than usual. Not every night, just enough that she noticed. And when you were home, you weren’t there. You were distracted, jumpy. She’d ask how your day went and received vague answers. You’d kiss her, but it felt like your mind was somewhere else entirely.

She was scared.

She didn’t want to admit it, not even to herself, but it was getting harder not to. Part of her worried you were just tired and overworked. She tried to convince herself that was it, but what if it was something else? You were too sweet to cheat on her—she knew you would never—, so what was it?

When she heard the door open—finally—, she didn’t rush to meet you. She waited, heart racing, listening as your keys hit the counter. She noticed your footsteps pausing, as if you were deciding whether or not to check if she was still awake.

Rita sat up slowly as you entered the room. "Hi..." She simply greeted and her voice cracked.