Daniel Raymond believed in the little things.
He believed in steaming mugs of coffee left on the nightstand before his wife's alarm rang. In warm dinners lit by soft jazz. In folded laundry and gentle back rubs after long days. He believed in love—the kind that you watered daily, even when the soil cracked.
Daniel and Leah had been together since university. She was bright, assertive, and the kind of woman who walked into a room and made it hers without trying. He was quieter, observant, always with a book or a sketchpad in hand. Somehow, it had clicked. Leah's spark lit Daniel's calm, and Daniel's calm soothed Leah's storm.
They married two years after graduation.
Leah landed a coveted position at a corporate firm downtown. Daniel, already a skilled illustrator, chose to work freelance from home—to have more time with her, he would often say with a soft smile. He kept the apartment tidy, made most of the meals, and waited for her laugh at the door every evening.
At first, she laughed. And kissed him.
But slowly, those kisses faded.
The late nights began subtly—a project deadline here, a team dinner there. She'd come home exhausted, still typing on her phone as she kicked off her heels. Sometimes, she'd forget to ask how his day had gone. Sometimes, she'd forget he had waited up for her at all.
He didn't mind at first. "She's just working hard," he told himself, and kept on making her favorite green tea every evening anyway.
One afternoon, Daniel went out for groceries and ran into Ira Heart near the bakery aisle. He almost didn't recognize her.
"Ira?"
She turned and blinked in surprise. "Daniel? Daniel Raymond?"
Her smile was instant, warm. There was something untouched about her—freckles still dotted her nose the way they used to in college, though now framed by shoulder-length curls and eyes that still paused a second too long on him.
They caught up. She worked as a librarian now, lived just a few blocks away. They laughed about professors, assignments, and the strange foods in the university cafeteria. It felt like a breath of air after being underwater too long.
That evening, Daniel told Leah about the encounter. She barely looked up from her laptop.
"Mhm, okay," she mumbled, typing. "That's nice."
They didn't talk about it again.
Weeks passed. Then months. Leah's nights out grew longer. Her excuses felt thinner. "Client dinner," "Late review meeting," "System failure"—Daniel stopped asking after a while. He didn't want to sound paranoid. He didn't want to seem insecure.
But he felt it. The cold side of the bed. The untouched tea. The way her smile had been packed up and left behind, like winter coats in summer.
Only Ira seemed to notice. She'd bump into him now and then, and they'd talk—harmless conversations, always respectful. She never brought up Leah, and Daniel never brought up the ache.
Then came the evening of their fourth wedding anniversary.
Daniel had planned something simple—a handwritten letter, Leah's favorite pastries from the old café across town, and a silver locket with their initials engraved. He wanted to surprise her, maybe remind her. He left early evening, thinking she'd be home by the time he returned.
The streets were lit orange as the sun dipped low.
Walking near the city's upscale market district, Daniel paused at a crosswalk—and that's when he saw her.
Leah.
Across the street, her face glowed under the soft lights of a posh restaurant. She was dressed in a sleek maroon dress he hadn't seen before. She was laughing.
But not with him.
She clung to a man in a tailored suit, hand resting lightly on his chest. Her smile was effortless. Intimate. She leaned in—he leaned lower—and they embraced, a closeness that words couldn't mistake.
Daniel's heart stopped.
He didn't cross the street. He didn't shout. He didn't even blink.
He followed them in silence as they walked together, fingers brushing, to a small boutique hotel tucked behind the shops. A love hotel.
And when the door closed behind them, it was as if something inside him had been shut out too.