The clock ticked softly in Elise’s apartment, each second a small reminder of everything unsaid. The air between her and Daniel felt fragile, like glass stretched thin. The lamp by the couch cast a warm, honeyed glow, softening the shadows but not the truth that hovered between them.
Daniel sat at the edge of the sofa, his hands clasped together, knuckles white. He had been quiet for too long, his thoughts scattered, his chest heavy with something that couldn’t be postponed any longer.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost breaking.
“And you know from the start, Elise… I love Marian.”
Her eyes lifted to his, searching, pleading for something different. But Daniel’s tone was steady — firm, final.
“What we had,” he continued, “was a mistake. Marian was my wife, and I betrayed
