“You sure?”
“Mmhmm. Busy. You know how it is.”
But I didn’t. Not with that edge in her voice, like she was trying to end the conversation before I could pull a thread I wasn’t supposed to see.
That night, I barely slept. I heard her say “busy” over and over, as if the word hurt to speak. The next morning, I called in sick, threw a bag in the car, and drove straight to her house without warning.
The neighborhood was buried in snow. I parked at the end of the street because her driveway was packed. I walked up the path cautiously, boots crunching on ice, telling myself I was being dramatic.
Then I looked through the front window.
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