Night fell. The house was spotless, the food was stored, and the lights were dimmed. This was it. 8 PM. This was when the doorbell would ring. I turned the volume up to max, waiting for the sound of a man’s voice.
But nobody came. Elena sat at the kitchen island, staring at a cold plate of leftovers. Then, she put her head in her hands. The audio picked up a sound that shattered my heart: ragged, silent sobbing.
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She wasn’t waiting for a lover. She was waiting for *me*. And she knew I wasn’t coming home. She looked around the pristine house with a look of utter defeat, as if the shining floors were a prison cell.