Still Waters
1319 Words
It had been sixteen days since Vanessa first heard that laugh.
Sixteen days of playing the devoted wife while Mark carried on with his elaborate script—pretending everything was fine, pretending she didn’t already know. She’d mastered the art of pretending too.
She cooked his favorite meals. Smiled politely when he kissed her cheek instead of her lips. Nodded at his weekend plans with his “team.” She even laughed at his dry, mechanical jokes, the way a stranger might—politely, distantly, coldly.
But inside, Vanessa was watching.
Every glance at his phone. Every sudden change in routine. Every slip of his tongue when he mentioned a "colleague" who didn’t exist in any of the firm’s social pages.
Mark used to be transparent. Now, he was a maze of lies, and she was learning every twist and turn.
On Sunday, Mark stayed in bed until noon, claiming jet lag from a “conference” in Seattle. Vanessa sat beside him with a book, pretending to read, while watching his fingers scroll through messages, always tilting his screen just enough to keep it hidden.
When he finally dozed off again, she rose without sound and walked to his side of the closet.
She didn’t go through his phone. That would be too obvious. Too desperate.
Instead, she checked the pockets of his blaze out of instinct, not expectation. There was a single receipt: two lattes, a croissant, a single rose.
The coffee shop was local.
His “conference” was a lie.
Vanessa folded the receipt back perfectly and returned it to the pocket.
Her hands didn’t shake. Her breath didn’t falter. She simply walked away.
That evening, Mark stood in their kitchen stirring his whiskey, the ice clinking against the glass like a ticking clock.
“You’ve been quiet lately,” he said without looking at her.
“Just tired,” she replied with a shrug, setting down the wine bottle she hadn't even opened.
“You should take a spa day or something. Might help,” he added, and she wondered if he was offering her space—or a distraction.
Vanessa nodded. “Maybe I will.”
He looked at her then. For a brief second, she thought he saw something different in her—a shift in her eyes, a calm too poised to be natural.
But he said nothing. He turned away.
That’s what cowards did.
Vanessa’s journal had become a secret companion, its pages filled with thoughts she could never voice. But in it, she wasn’t a victim. She was sharpening herself like a blade.
“I wonder if he thinks I’ll cry forever. If he assumes I’ll wait, forgive, or forget. But I’ve studied storms. They don’t beg. They don’t warn. They arrive.”
She started writing down times, places, details. Not to confront him—but to know.
She wanted to understand the story he was writing for himself. The version where he was the hero. The man who strayed because she changed, because the spark died, because he was under pressure.
She wanted to know the lies he’d tell once it all collapsed—because it would.
Vanessa didn’t believe in revenge. Not yet.
But she did believe in truth. And in truth, Mark was no longer hers. He had made that choice in quiet hotels and unread texts.Now she would make hers.
One evening, after Mark claimed he’d be working late, she drove past his office.
The parking lot was nearly empty. His car wasn’t there.
She drove a little farther, heart quiet but hands clenched. She didn’t know where he was going—she just knew where he wasn’t.
Vanessa didn’t follow. She didn’t need to.
She went home. Took a long shower. Lit a candle. And stood in front of the mirror.
Her reflection was sharper than she remembered like glass that had been cleaned after years of dust. She looked… awake.
The version of herself who had begged for his attention, who had stayed hopeful, who had trusted blindly that woman was gone.
And the one staring back?
She wasn’t angry. She was ready.
The days passed like a slow-moving film reel—each frame perfectly normal on the surface, but laced with static underneath.
Vanessa had always been good at curating life. Her wardrobe was impeccable. Her posture never slouched. Her words were graceful, never rash. In social circles, she was the one women envied and men admired from a distance.
Now, she was a statue learning how to blink.
At brunch with their couple friends the following Saturday, Mark played the role of loving husband so convincingly, even she almost believed it. He kept his hand on her thigh under the table. Called her “babe” like he used to. Talked about their future vacation plans like they weren’t suffocating in silence behind closed doors.
Everyone laughed when Mark told the story of their trip to Morocco. Vanessa laughed too—but her eyes didn’t.
Across the table, Julia, her closest friend, squinted just slightly, as if she sensed the performance. Vanessa felt it. That small crack of recognition.
But she said nothing. After all, she had no proof—only shadows.
At night, Vanessa couldn’t sleep.
The bed had become an empty field between them. Mark’s snores filled the room like waves against a cliff she was ready to leap from.
She started reading poetry again.
Stuff she used to love before her marriage became a contract of endurance. Her favorite lines weren’t about love—they were about survival. About stillness and storms.
She read in the bathtub with classical music playing low. Lavender candles burned down to nothing. She let herself imagine what it would be like to be alone—not lonely, but free.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t rage.
She sat in the quiet, listening to the throb of her own heartbeat. It was still strong.
Vanessa threw herself into work. Her creative agency had once been her first love. Now, it became her escape. She stayed late. Took extra client meetings. Hosted strategy sessions with young interns who looked at her like a goddess in heels. She smiled more there.
No one asked about Mark. They just admired her ideas. Celebrated her wins. Listened when she spoke.
It felt like oxygen.
One of the younger associates, Claire, once commented, “I hope I have your life one day.”
Vanessa paused. Smiled. Then said, “You should build your own version. Not mine.” She walked away without explaining.
Late one evening, Vanessa walked into her dressing room and stood still.
She looked at the rows of heels she hadn’t worn in months. The cocktail dresses. The jewelry. All the pieces she used to wear when she was happy—or at least pretending to be.
She touched the fabric of a silk gown she’d worn to their fifth anniversary dinner. The night she’d toasted to “forever” while Mark texted someone under the table.
A wave of nausea hit her, but she held it in.
Then she did something she hadn’t done in a while: she pulled out her phone and opened a blank note.
She titled it: “Things I Forgot I Loved.”
And she started typing:
Jazz at night
Stargazing on the roof
Strawberry smoothies
Sunday markets
My own voice. She stared at that last one for a long time.
Then she added another: The quiet before becoming something new
On the following Thursday, while Mark was “working late,” Vanessa drove aimlessly. She didn’t want to go home. The house didn’t feel like home anymore.
She parked by the pier, watching couples pass by, arms wrapped around each other, the kind of closeness that used to make her heart ache with longing.
Now it made her feel... neutral.
She was changing.
Not broken. Not bitter.
Just... waking up.
- Writer
