Eight Years, A Twisted Play

he Venice project is a huge comm

other end of the line. His voice w

view I had worked my entire life to earn. "I'm sure, Ma

s! The firm is thrilled. We know you're the only one

estoration project and make a real name for myself in the world of

wedding is on hold?" Mar

e air. The wedding. My e

ng out sharper than I inten

he line. I could almost

'm sorry to h

he started in my chest, a dull, heavy weight I' d been carryi

else, before my voice could crack and reveal

left on the corner of my desk yesterday. He was always forgetting thi

e to upload some work files for him. I typed in the passwor

, my cursor hovered over another

e a darker instinc

. And inside them, thousands upon thousand

school sw

ctures of her in college, laughing with friends on a beach. Recent pictures, professional-looking headshots, cand

searched for any pictures of us. I found a handful, maybe ten in total, from a co

g him once why we

hat easy, charming smile that used to make my h

cuses for him. For eight years, I

e excuses I had built up over the years, the little walls I'd constructed to pro

iend, Sarah, pulling me

brow furrowed with worry. "He still talks about Ch

aughed

Sarah. He loves me. We

ptimistic. I had bet my entire life

ate phone call he took in the other room, every time he avoided talking

a text. A simple, clean break.

st message I sent him yesterday morning, the one about the

n the laptop screen. He had just posted something a f

is back in

The white whale. The obsessive, all-consuming pursuit. That' s what he

he wa

he desk to steady myself. My legs felt weak, unable to

le emotionally reserved. I told myself his charm made up for h

He was manipulative. He was c

big red circle was drawn around a date

ticipation for months now felt like a ticking ti