Chapter Two: Cracks in the Frame
779 Words
Emma awoke to the scent of rain and the warm press of Daniel’s chest against her back. His arm was draped lazily over her waist, his breath soft at the nape of her neck. For a moment, it felt like safety.
She closed her eyes again, soaking in the quiet.
But something tugged at the edge of her thoughts — a flicker of unease. A distant sound, maybe. A feeling she couldn’t name.
She turned carefully in his arms and studied his face. His mouth was slightly open, the trace of a dream twitching in his brow. Still beautiful. Still hers. But he looked… far away. Asleep, and already drifting from her.
Emma sat up, slipping out from under the covers with practiced silence. She padded softly into the kitchen, pulling his shirt over her head. The night had cooled, and the hardwood was cold against her bare feet.
She poured herself a glass of water, then spotted his phone on the counter.
Its screen was dark. Innocent.
She didn’t mean to reach for it — not really. But her hand moved anyway, as if some part of her knew before her mind could admit it.
One missed message.
No name. Just a number.
“You were amazing last night. I dreamt of you.”
Her breath caught.
Her thumb hovered over the screen, heart pounding, vision narrowing to that single sentence. It could’ve been a joke. A misunderstanding. A friend.
But she knew. She knew.
She placed the phone back down like it burned, and leaned her palms on the counter to steady herself. For a long time, she just stood there, staring at nothing, trying not to imagine what “amazing” meant.
Behind her, she heard the creak of the floorboards. Daniel’s voice was sleepy, soft.
“You okay, Em?”
She turned, forcing a smile so convincing it nearly fooled her too.
“Yeah,” she said. “Just needed some water.”
He crossed to her, wrapping his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder.
“You were perfect last night,” he murmured.
Emma nodded, her stomach twisting.
So were you, she thought.
That’s what makes this worse.
Emma showered alone that morning. The steam did little to quiet her thoughts.
Water streamed down her body, but all she could feel was the weight in her chest — not sharp, not sudden, but thick and slow, like honey gone bitter. She tried to trace the moment it began: the text, yes, but also... before that.
The way he’d kissed her last night — intense, yes, but not tender. The way his hands had gripped her hips, urgent, possessive. The way he didn’t look into her eyes when he said he loved her.
She’d noticed. She always noticed. But she’d been trained — by every past relationship, by every love story — to believe that noticing was a weakness. That suspicion meant you weren’t trusting enough. That doubt made you the problem.
So she rinsed her hair with lavender shampoo and breathed in something familiar, something hers.
Afterward, wrapped in a towel, she returned to the bedroom to find Daniel already dressed. Blue oxford shirt, cuff-links. A tie she’d bought him two Christmases ago. He looked good — always did. But this morning, he looked curated. Like something meant for a show.
“I’ve got a quick meeting downtown,” he said, without looking up from his phone. “Shouldn’t take long.”
Her eyes dropped to the screen again — but it was locked. He tucked it into his blazer with a practiced flick.
“You okay?” he asked, finally meeting her eyes.
Emma hesitated. She wanted to scream: Who is she?
She wanted to beg: Tell me the truth before I stop loving you.
But instead, she smiled and said, “Just tired.”
His mouth lifted into that half-smile he used when he was already halfway out the door.
“Get some rest,” he said. “You’ve been working too hard.”
She watched him leave, the sound of his shoes fading down the hall.
The door closed.
And Emma stood there in the middle of the room, towel damp against her skin, her heartbeat louder than the rain. She walked to the bed, sat down, and opened her journal.
She didn’t write a poem, or a plan. Just a single question, circled in ink until the paper nearly tore:
“If he’s lying… why do I still want him to love me?”
She stared at it, then shut the notebook.
And for the first time in weeks, she cried without knowing exactly why.
- Writer
