She drives perfectly straight.
Too carefully.
Like she’s containing something.
When we pull up to the house, she doesn’t shut the engine off right away.
Just sits there.
Hands on the wheel.
Then, without turning her head, she says?—
“I wasn’t the only one telling lies, huh?”
Her voice is calm.
Almost curious.
I swallow.
“I wasn’t hiding?—”
She finally looks at me.
Her eyes are wet.
Not crying.
Just full.
“You went to therapy. I told you everything,” she says quietly. “Every ugly thing. Every embarrassing thing.”
She lets out a small breath through her nose.
“And you kept a whole other version of yourself.”
She shakes her head once, like she’s disappointed in herself more than me.
“I didn’t even know what to be jealous of,” she says. “That’s the part that hurts.”
She opens the door.
Cold air floods in.
“Goodnight, Ethan.”
And then she’s gone.
No yelling.
No tears.
No fight.
Just a door closing softly behind her.
I sit there in the dark, realizing something too late:
