His Secret Life, My Shattered Dreams

fore. It wasn't sadness, but a quiet, reflective wistfulness, as if he were replaying a cherished memory, a life he had once almost chosen. It w

f Keeley, perhaps wanting to look his best for a public event. I' d even felt a little flutter of pride, thinking he was making an effort for us, as a couple presenting a united front. What a fool I had been.

y silence. "Chloe mentioned... she said you used to write scre

mask. His knuckles, white against the steering wheel, betrayed his tension. "It was a long

poke tonight, the way you understood every nuance of that film... It s

e to my senses. Architecture is a stable, respectable career. Filmmaking is a pipe dream for most." He

ed life, built on such a flimsy foundation? Was he truly ashamed of that part of himself, or was he ashamed of me di

his usual routine, leaving early, returning late, immersed in his architectural empire. But my sleep was shallow, hau

desperate for answers. Tucked away in a drawer beneath stacks of old design magazines, I found it: a worn leather-bound notebook. Inside were pages filled with musical notations, lyrics scribbled in a handwriting that was undeniably Emmet

d simply shrugged it off, saying it was "just an old hobby." I had believed him. I' d let it go, resp

a sudden vibration jolted me awake. Emmett' s phone, resting on his bedside table, lit up with an incomi

trying not to wake me. He slipped out of bed, carrying the phone to the balcony jus

raining to hear. His voice was a low murmur, barely audible, laced with a frantic urgency. Phrases drift

coming. To her. In th

the quiet click of the door as he left, each sound a tiny pinprick against my raw nerves.

mpty. The room was dark, but a cold, hard truth settled over me like a shroud. He might