She made pasta that evening, acting like we were still that happy couple.
She set the plates down, smiled. "Long day?"
"Yeah," I said, twirling the fork. "Just meetings."
The smell of garlic and olive oil filled the air.
For a moment, it almost felt normal.
She talked about some movie she wanted to watch over the weekend.
I nodded at the right moments, smiled where I had to.
But in my head, I was rewinding every moment, every word.
Trying to read her eyes for any flicker of guilt.
There was none.
She was too good at this.
At one point, I looked at her smile and thought:
That's the same smile you give him, isn't it?
I nearly dropped the fork.
My stomach knotted, not from the food but from the quiet rage.
But I swallowed it, the same way I swallowed the last bite of pasta.
Cold, slow, without a word.