Whispers of Deceit.

Chapter 8

The next morning, the tension between Jared and me is thick enough to cut with a knife. He’s on call today but has a lot of paperwork to do, so he isn’t relaxing like he does most days he does whilst he waits for his phone to ring to tell him he has to go to work. I can feel the coldness radiating off him even though we haven’t exchanged more than a few words. His laptop is set up at the kitchen bar, papers scattered around him, but every now and then, I catch him glancing at me, his eyes filled with quiet confusion.

I sip my coffee, trying to act like everything is normal, but the knot in my stomach tightens with every passing minute. Be normal, be normal. I repeat the words in my head, forcing a smile when he looks up from his screen.

I glance at the clock. It’s almost time. I have to take the pill the same time everyday and I have chosen 12p.m. My heart races as I make my way to the bathroom, the tiny packet of pills hidden in my pocket, pressing against my leg with every step. When I got to the room last night, Jared was still awake on his phone so I was unable to transfer it over to my pill box.

Once I’m inside, I close the door softly and lean against it for a second, the weight of what I’m about to do settling on me again. It’s just a pill. I tell myself, but it feels like more than that. Like this small, innocent pill is the line between the life Jared wants and the life I’m choosing.

I reach into my pocket, pulling out the packet. My hands tremble as I pop the first pill out of its blister pack. It’s so small, so insignificant-looking, but I know better. This little pill is everything—my secret, my escape, my guilt.

I bring it to my lips and swallow, washing it down with my coffee. The act is quick, over in seconds, but the weight doesn’t lift. If anything, it presses harder on my chest. It’s done. I think, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. But it’s not relief I feel. It’s dread.

I quickly head upstairs, making my way into my bedroom. I open my nightstand drawer and pull out my pill box. I deposit the pills into the box, the weight of my actions tugging at me as I empty the packet.

I try to keep busy, cleaning up around the house, running through my emails, anything to distract myself. But the icy distance between Jared and me hasn’t melted. He’s been quiet, too quiet. I glance over at him from the kitchen, watching as he types away at his laptop. His brow is furrowed, but it’s not just from work—I can tell he’s still thinking about last night. About me.

I clear my throat, trying to sound casual as I call over to him. “Do you want some lunch later? I can make us sandwiches.”

He glances up, blinking as if coming out of a fog. There’s a pause, long enough to make my heart thud in my chest.

“Sure,” he says finally, his voice flat. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I nod, forcing a smile even though my stomach churns. I can’t let him see how much this is eating me alive. Just act normal, I tell myself again. But it’s harder than I expected. Everything feels off. The air between us is charged, heavy with everything we aren’t saying.

I move into the kitchen, pulling ingredients out of the fridge, my hands working on autopilot. As I slice the bread and layer the meat, I try to push last night out of my mind. I try to think of anything else—work, errands, even what we’ll watch on TV tonight. Anything but the silence, anything but that pill sitting inside me, a secret Jared can’t know.

The sound of Jared’s chair scraping against the floor makes me jump. I glance over my shoulder as he stands, stretching, then makes his way to the kitchen.

“I can help,” he says, his voice still distant.

I hand him a plate, trying to bridge the gap between us. “Thanks.”