Weeks passed. She hummed while cooking, touched my arm in passing, asked if I wanted to watch a movie. It should have felt comforting, but it felt surreal.
Then I noticed something: every week she had a gynecologist appointment, same day, same time. When I offered to drive her, she declined. “I need the time to think,” she said. That sentence haunted me. My guilt twisted into paranoia.
One evening, I couldn’t hold it in. “What’s going on? You’ve been different. I need to know,” I asked.
She looked at me, smiled softly, and said: “You really want to know?”
I nodded.
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