I Saw Two Faces In My Husband’s Heart Chapter 06
I waited until he was scheduled for an actual out-of-state trial to completely clear my belongings from the apartment.
I had secured a small loft downtown, arranged the packing crates, and hired a local moving crew. In less than three hours, six years of shared history were systematically erased.
My wardrobe from the walk-in closet, my skincare bottles from the vanity, the half-read novels from my nightstand, my favorite coffee mug, even the small tortoiseshell hair clips left in the bathroom drawers — all gone.
I retrieved our marriage certificate from the desk drawer. From the kitchen, I packed the linen apron I had bought, my personal set of ceramic plates, and the delicate jasmine plant I had spent months nurturing on the terrace.
Samantha stood in the center of the emptied living space, surveying the bare floors. “Are we leaving the mid-century sofa? You spent six months sourcing that piece.”
I looked at the wide fabric couch. “It’s too large. It won’t fit into the new place.”
She didn’t press further.
Finally, I opened the master wardrobe. His side remained meticulously organized, filled with pressed suits and silk ties; my side was nothing but a row of empty wooden hangers, gently swaying in the draft.
I placed the signed divorce petition in the center of the glass coffee table. On top of the paperwork, I laid a vintage brass charm bracelet — the very first gift he had given me when we were seven years old. The tiny charms had tarnished over the years, losing their luster.
Beside it, I left a small post-it note with a single sentence: [It’s become too heavy to wear.]
I laid the house keys on the console by the foyer. Before pulling the door shut, I took one final look inside. The sofa we had chosen together, the custom curtains I had hemmed by hand, the fresh eucalyptus I had arranged in the vase just yesterday — I left them all behind.
Samantha was waiting in the car, the engine idling. As I slid into the passenger seat, she glanced over. “Did you cry?”
“No.”
She looked at me for a moment but chose not to shatter my pretense.
The new loft faced north, compact and stark. Outside the window, the faint sounds of children playing in the street drifted up from the alley below. I dropped my suitcase onto the hardwood floor and stood in the empty space, watching a sliver of late afternoon sunlight cut across the room.
At the very top of my luggage lay an old, fabric-bound journal — the one I had kept since childhood.
I opened the first page, touching the faded ink: [Met the boy next door today. His name is Ethan Vance. He tripped on the pavement and started crying, but when I reached out to pull him up and closed my eyes, I saw myself wearing a bright sundress.]
I closed the journal and placed it in the bottom drawer of the nightstand.
He returned to the city two days later.
Late that evening, Samantha sent a brief text: [He’s standing right outside your old apartment door. Just staring.]
I replied: [Let him stand.]
An hour later, another message arrived: [He’s slid down against the wall now, his head buried in his knees. Looks like he’s actually breaking down.]
I didn’t respond.
At midnight, my phone lit up with an unknown number. I declined it. Then came a barrage of text messages from a different area code: [Chris, please. Just pick up the phone. Tell me where you are.]
At three in the morning, the phone rang again. This time, Samantha answered it on her end.
“She’s asleep,” she said into the receiver.
The silence on the other end lasted for a painful duration. When Ethan finally spoke, his voice was entirely unrecognizable, ruined and hoarse. “Has she… has she eaten anything today?”
Samantha ended the call without an answer.
At four, a final text message slipped through the network: [Chris… what you told me about the visions. Was it the truth?]