"Where were you?" his voice startled me, making me jump. I stood by the door, facing it, not daring to look behind. And when I did, I saw nothing but pure darkness, except for the dim light of the moon that poured in through the window, washing over the furniture. But I didn't see him. There was no sight of him anywhere. And I sighed, somewhat relieved. The fear of getting caught had been haunting me for weeks now and it had gotten to the point where I imagined his voice.
I ran my fingers through my hair and started for the bedroom, but was stopped short when I heard his voice again, repeating the same question sternly. It couldn't be my mind this time, plating tricks on me. And with a slight shaking, I turned around. The place I was standing at end the dim light provided me a new sight, and I could now see him sitting on the black leather chair we cuddled up in during rainy days. The moonlight stroked his features, dancing off his skin and black dyed hair. I saw a bottle of liquor on the coffee table and a full glass of said liquor in his hand. He was staring unseeingly at the window.
I froze in my spot, looking at him, without knowing what t say, what lie to come up with to get myself out of the problem. But... did I really want to lie again, to make up a story so he wouldn't ask any more questions? I wasn't sure I did. I was exhausted. Exhausted of hiding, of keeping this charade going. Exhausted of pretending, of lying to him and to myself. There was no point in being constantly in a state of alert, watching my back, fearing he might find out one day. Fear and guilt were eating me up slowly. It just wasn't worth it anymore. So, this time, I didn't lie. I didn't hide behind a story. I finished what I had started.
Sighing silently, I approached him, feeling my heart in my throat ad tingling of nervousness creeping up my back. I gulped against the huge not forming in my throat. I placed myself in front of him, letting my bag fall onto the floor. I looked at him but he didn't look at me. I knelt before him so we could be face to face and I placed my hands onto his knees. I looked up at him and, forcing my voice from the back of my throat, I said: "We need to talk, Tom."
He blinked and swallowed, but never did he look back at me. His gaze was lost beyond that window, hoping silently this wasn't happening at all.
"Tom," I uttered, placing my right hand onto his left one, but he slid it free.
I looked down at my hands and bit on the inside of my cheek, trying to fight back the tears that sprung to my eyes. It was selfish feeling like this, feeling hurt by his actions, when I was the one to blame for all of this. But that didn't prevent me from feeling the way I did.
"How long?" He said, his voice was raspy from the alcohol and the tears that I knew he had shed.
"Over six months." I answered, not daring to look up at him.
He chuckled a little, but he wasn't amused. It wasn't his usual chuckle, full of joy. No. This one was full of sadness and disappointment.
"Six months." He repeated, mostly to himself, as if processing the information just given.
He brought the glass to his lips and drank what was left of the content in one sip. He placed the glass on the small table next to him and stood up, nearly making me fall to the floor. He headed towards the window, leaning his hands onto the frame, giving his back to me. I stood up as well, but I didn't follow him. The only thing that my eyes met was the back of his head. His long black curls that I loved so much. And that I knew I would never get to entwine my fingers into.
"Who is it? Do I know him?" He asked, never turning his face to me.
"Tom, it doesn't matter—"
"But it does matter." He exclaimed, turning around. His face was tear-stained; his eyes were puffy and bloodshot. And my heart sank to the floor. I had done this to him. All the tears that he had spilled were because of me.
