The first page was dated roughly two years ago. Her handwriting, small, elegant, and impossibly flawless, filled the lines.
“He brought me flowers today. Yellow lilies. Said he saw them and thought of me. Maybe things are changing. Maybe this time, I won’t have to keep waiting for him to look at me like I matter.”
He swallowed hard and turned the page.
“He’s been distant again. I don’t know what I did. Sometimes he comes home and doesn’t speak to me for hours. I sit on the balcony and pretend not to care, but every time I hear footsteps, I hope it’s him coming to find me.”
Another page. Another truth.
“Danielle called again. He didn’t tell me, but I saw her name flash on his phone. I keep pretending I don’t notice. I keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.”
He read until the words blurred.
