Shadows of Doubt

The silken sheets felt cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat that had been simmering beneath the surface for weeks. Mark’s words, sharp and barbed, echoed in the quiet of the bedroom, each one a tiny pinprick against the raw wound of my grief. He was pacing, his usual smooth stride now agitated, his voice a low rumble that vibrated with an impatience I’d come to know all too well.

“I don’t understand why you’re being like this, Becca,” he said, stopping by the dresser to run a hand through his perfectly styled hair. “It’s like you’re not even here anymore. Did I do something wrong?”

The question hung in the air, laced with a manufactured innocence that made my stomach churn. Did he do something wrong? The question was a cruel joke. It was a constant barrage, a slow erosion of my confidence, a subtle chipping away at my sense of self. Yet, here he was, feigning ignorance, making it my fault.