When I asked about it, he kissed my forehead and said, “Don’t worry so much, babe. Just trying to get ahead at work.”
But there was something in his voice—something off.
One night, I woke up around two in the morning, and his side of the bed was cold.
The light under the guest room door glowed faintly. I almost knocked, but stopped myself. I didn’t want to seem paranoid.
The next morning, Ethan was already gone.
This time there was no breakfast together, no goodbye kiss—just a note on the counter: “Busy day, love you.”
And every night, it was the same: “You were loud again, honey. I need a full night’s rest. Just until I can get some good sleep.” He’d say it as if he were doing me a favor.
Ethan told me sleeping apart from me was “for his health.” “Babe, it’s just until I start sleeping better,” he’d said.
I felt embarrassed.
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