Everything felt volatile. One wrong sentence away from another implosion.
So I stayed quiet.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
About the way the man hadn’t sounded bitter. Or angry. Or jealous.
He’d sounded… relieved.
That thought followed me through the week. Through conference calls and late nights and the steady hum of work that usually calmed me.
It didn’t this time.
By Thursday afternoon, the office had gone oddly still. Half the floor was out. The other half buried in meetings. The kind of lull where you could hear the HVAC kick on and off.
I leaned back in my chair and stared at my screen.
Then, without really deciding to, I minimized my work and opened the browser.
I glanced over my shoulder first.
No one watching.
The internet loaded slowly, the familiar whine and click of the modem faint in the background. I didn’t even know what I was looking for yet—just a shape of a question I couldn’t shake.
I typed her name.
Then deleted it.
Typed it again.
Sage Collette Comeaux
I added:New York
Then:Hamptons
Then, after a beat:engagement
I hit enter.
The results came back uneven, half-broken. Old links. Cached pages. Things that looked like they hadn’t been touched in years.
I clicked one.
Bed Bath & Beyond.
A registry.
My pulse ticked up.
I scrolled.
China patterns. Flatware. Towels. The kind of things you only register for when you think you’re building something permanent.
Her name was there.
So was his.
