The tightrope, once a thrilling high-wire act, became a torturous balance beam suspended over a pit of my own digging. The paranoia didn't arrive with a bang; it was a slow, insidious seep, a poison gas leaking from the beautiful, bold vessel of our night, filling the atmosphere of our home with a scent only I could smell.
It started with the questions I'd swallow, letting them dissolve like acid in my stomach.
Was it enough for him?
Did it ruin me for him?
When he seemed quiet during dinner, pushing roasted vegetables around his plate, my mind would sprint through dark corridors. Was he replaying scenes? Comparing sensations? Was the memory of a stranger's touch more vivid than the reality of mine? When he kissed me goodnight with a tenderness that lacked the hotel's desperate, wo
