I found Gerald in the living room, his back to the window, a glass of water untouched.
“We need to talk,” I said, voice steadier than I felt.
He turned, eyes narrowing, the familiar crease between his brows deepening.
“What about?” he asked, tone cool, as if I were the one intruding.
I placed the box on the coffee table, the lid cracked open, letters spilling like confessions.
“Explain these,” I demanded, gesturing to the photographs.
He stared at the images, his face paling, the silence stretching thin.
“You… you were saving money for a trip?” I pressed, throat catching on the word “trip.”
His hand slipped off the table, trembling.
“I… I didn’t mean for you to find out like this,” he whispered, voice cracking.
“Who is she?” I asked, eyes burning, the letters burning a hole in my chest.
He opened his mouth, but before any answer could leave his lips, his face contorted.
“Ah—” he gasped, clutching his chest, his fingers digging into his shirt.
His knees buckled, the box sliding across the floor, letters scattering like fallen leaves.
He fell forward, hitting the coffee table with a thud that reverberated through the room.
“Gerald?” I shouted, lunging, hands shaking, the world narrowing to that single, terrified moment.
