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It started with something small. We’d been rushing out the door to dinner with his parents, and he couldn’t find his keys. Typical, honestly. He told me to check his jacket while he searched upstairs. I reached into the pocket of his old navy pea coat, the one he rarely wore anymore.
Instead of keys, my fingers brushed up against crumpled paper. I pulled it out without thinking. It was a note. Torn out from a journal, the handwriting unfamiliar—delicate cursive, not his all-caps scrawl. I hesitated before reading it, already sensing I shouldn’t. But I did.
“I miss you more than I should. Last night meant everything. Yours, L.”
My heart stopped. I read it again. And again. I stood frozen in the hallway, dinner plans forgotten. Last night? That was the night he’d told me he had to work late. He hadn’t come home until nearly midnight, claiming server issues.
I tucked the note back exactly how I’d found it.
At dinner, I watched him. Noticed too many smiles, too many deflections. He reached for my hand under the table, and I flinched. He paused, then carried on like nothing. I wanted to scream.
Later that night, I sat beside him in bed, pretending to scroll through my phone. He kissed my cheek. I didn’t move. “Everything okay?” he asked.
I lied. “Just tired.”
But inside, a war had begun. Part of me desperate to believe it was nothing, a misunderstanding. Another part of me already building walls, planning what to do next.
As I type this, the note is in my lap. And I just noticed something else written at the bottom, in smaller print: “Don’t forget next weekend. I booked the cabin.”
He told me he’d be on a business trip next weekend.
I don’t know whether to confront him… or show up at that cabin myself.
