“I don’t want to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Make my work friendships into some relationship issue.”
I stopped.
Not because she convinced me.
Because conflict with Sarah often ended when I decided peace was easier.
That became my first mistake.
Not trusting her.
Avoiding myself.
The next few months were full of things small enough to excuse.
Sarah worked later.
Mark happened to work late too.
Sarah attended happy hours she previously hated.
Mark organized them.
Sarah suddenly wanted to try a climbing gym.
Mark climbed.
A band she had never cared about became one of her favorites.
Mark had recommended them.
I noticed.
Then I told myself that noticing was insecurity.
The strangest part was that Sarah still loved me in familiar ways.
She kissed me before work.
She bought my favorite cereal.
She asked how my mother was doing.
She curled against me in bed.
Sometimes I would think:
See?
You imagined it.
Then her phone would light up.
And she would smile at something I could not see.
I tried once more to talk.
It was a Sunday.
We were making pasta.
Sarah stood beside the stove stirring sauce.
I said:
“Can I ask something without you getting defensive?”
She immediately became defensive.
“That’s usually how people introduce something defensive.”
I smiled weakly.
“Do you have feelings for Mark?”
The spoon stopped.
Only for a second.
Then she continued stirring.
“He’s my friend.”
“That’s not the question.”
Sarah turned.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because I’m asking.”
“You’ve been weird about him for months.”
“I’ve been uncomfortable for months.”
“Because I have a male friend.”
“Because you talk to him constantly.”
“We work together.”
“Because you hide your phone.”
“I don’t hide my phone.”
“Okay.”
My tone changed.
She heard it.
“What does ‘okay’ mean?”
“It means I’m not going to argue about what I can see.”
Sarah stared at me.
Then she softened.
“Liam.”
She came closer.
“You’re my person.”
She touched my chest.
“I love you.”
I wanted that to settle everything.
So I let it.
That was my second mistake.
Not because believing someone you love is foolish.
Because I accepted reassurance instead of asking whether the behavior changed.
It did not.
By the month before the breakup, something between us felt hollow.
Sarah still occupied the apartment.
Still slept beside me.
Still asked whether we needed groceries.
But some part of her attention lived elsewhere.
Her laughter with me arrived late.
Her enthusiasm arrived elsewhere first.
I could feel myself becoming careful around her.
I stopped asking about Mark because I disliked becoming the boyfriend Sarah accused me of being.
I stopped suggesting date nights because she was often tired.
I started spending more time at the gym.
Then I resented her for not noticing.
That part belongs to me.
I could have spoken more clearly.
I could have said:
This relationship no longer feels mutual.
Instead, I waited for Sarah to decide what was happening.
Eventually, she did.
Tuesday.
That is the day I remember.
I had left work early.
I roasted chicken with garlic and thyme.
Sarah texted:
We need to talk tonight.
Four words capable of ruining an entire afternoon.
I knew.
Some part of me had known for weeks.
Still, I cooked.
That sounds ridiculous.
Maybe routine was the last thing I could control.
At six-thirty, Sarah came home.
She hugged me.
Too long.
Then she went to change clothes.
We barely ate.
At seven-fifteen, I cleared the plates.
At seven-thirty, we sat in the living room.