The next morning, I bought a cheap spiral notebook on the way to work.It felt almost childish, buying stationery like a schoolboy.
But that night, sitting at the kitchen table while she slept in the bedroom, I opened it and started writing.
Not poetry. Not diary entries.Just facts.Dates. Times. Places.The little lies she told, the ones that slipped past so easily.
The scratching of the pen on paper was oddly calming.It felt like taking back a bit of control — like I was stitching a net around her world, one thin thread at a time.
I even wrote about my own moods.The moments when I almost exploded.The nights when I almost texted her the photos I had.
By the time I closed the notebook, it was past midnight.I sat there staring at it for a long time.It looked harmless — just a thin stack of pages.But inside it was a slow, patient storm.