It wasn’t about him at first; it really wasn’t. I just wanted to know whether my snoring was really that bad. I found an old handheld recorder from my freelance days, the kind that runs all night.
I tucked it under the lampshade next to my bed and pressed “record.”
I whispered into the dark, “Let’s see what’s really going on.”
When I woke up, I didn’t even brush my teeth. I grabbed the recorder, my heart pounding in my chest, and hit “play.”
The first hour was nothing except the quiet hum of the fridge downstairs, the occasional creak of the ceiling settling. But there was no snoring, not even a deep breath.
I scrubbed forward, still nothing.
And then, at exactly 2:17 a.m., I heard it: footsteps. They were not mine. These were slow, measured steps in the hallway, then the faint creak of the guest room door.
I turned the volume up.
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