**Diary Entry**
I called you tomorrow.
Oliver lay on his back, the weight of Martha’s head nestled in the hollow of his collarbone. Her leg draped over him, her palm pressed against his chest, right over his heart. He listened to her steady breath, sinking into that quiet contentment. *If only we could stay like this forever…* He shut his eyes.
A jolt startled him awake, as if someone had nudged him. Martha stirred beside him.
“Time already?” she mumbled, still half-asleep.
From the sofa, he couldn’t see the window, but the deepening shadows told him evening had fallen. Long past the hour to leave their little hideaway. He didn’t want to.
They’d met too late—both already bound by vows, by children, by duty. They lived from stolen moment to stolen moment, aching for these precious hours alone. Oliver sighed without meaning to, and Martha lifted her head.
“It’s dark!” she gasped, fully alert now, pushing herself up. Where her hand had rested, his skin felt suddenly cold. She was right there, and yet his heart already ached with loneliness.
“Get up,” she said, brisk. “We still have to drive back. What am I supposed to tell my husband?”
“The truth,” Oliver said, tossing the blanket aside and standing.
They dressed hastily, avoiding each other’s eyes. He didn’t care what waited for him at home. He was past caring—sick of lying, sick of hiding. She, though, was tense, irritated at their foolish nap, the wasted time.
“Tell him you ran into an old friend from school,” Oliver suggested. “Lost track of time.”
“He knows all my friends. Might even call them.” Martha refused to look at him.
“Then say it was someone from the past. Not a friend, just an acquaintance.”
“What will *you* tell your wife?” Martha stopped buttoning her blouse, finally meeting his gaze.
He stepped closer, cupped her face. “She stopped asking a long time ago. She knows.” He kissed her, felt her soften against him. The darkness wrapped around them, clinging, unwilling to let go.
Martha pushed him away—gently, but firm. “We’ll never leave if we stay like this.” She hurriedly finished fastening her blouse.
Oliver wanted to say something, to reassure her. He’d begged her a hundred times—tell the truth, break free of this cycle of lies. But the children… He adored his ten-year-old Sophie. Martha worried for her twelve-year-old son, Thomas.
When they’d first started, he thought it would be simple—a few nights, then over. But it had gotten complicated. He’d give up everything for her. But would she? She dodged the question, asked for time. Oliver sighed.
“Don’t be angry,” Martha said, guilt threading her voice. “We agreed—”
“Get in the car,” he interrupted. “Keys are in my jacket. I’ll tidy up.”
“Don’t take long,” she called from the hallway.
How had the hours slipped away so fast? Usually, after passion faded, they’d talk, plan. Today, sleep had stolen that from them. Now the goodbye felt unfinished.
The dim glow from the hallway barely lit the room. The door clicked shut—Martha was gone. Oliver folded the sofa back into place, stashed the sheets in the drawer beneath. The landlady never touched them. He scanned the room for any sign they’d been there. Nothing.
In the cramped hallway, he dressed quickly, pulled out a few folded notes (withdrawn earlier from the ATM) and left them on the side table. A flick of the switch, and he stepped out.
The flat wasn’t much—just a rented space for a few hours. A colleague had tipped him off about the elderly woman who owned it. She’d disappear at their scheduled times. He never asked where. She needed the money; they needed privacy.
A hotel would’ve been easier, but risky—someone might recognize them. And the thought of another couple’s ghosts on the sheets repelled him.
On the stairs, he passed a woman hauling shopping bags. He mumbled a greeting; she scowled, watching him suspiciously.
In his own building—where he lived with his wife and daughter—neighbors exchanged polite nods. Here, strangers were met with distrust.
The car was dark inside. He couldn’t read Martha’s expression.
“Ready?”
She exhaled. “Maybe you’re right. We should end the lies. But where would we live? *If* we stayed together.”
The unsaid words haunted her too.
“We’ll figure it out. Rent somewhere at first.”
“Like *this* place?” Her voice wavered.
He didn’t answer, just focused on the road. Traffic thickened near the city center. Before her street, he pulled over. She leaned in for one last kiss—a fleeting closeness before parting.
“Till Tuesday?” She pulled away. Her eyes glistened—streetlights or tears?
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Oliver said.
Martha stepped out, didn’t look back. He sat there, half-hoping she’d return. Then he turned the car toward home.
*****
The flat was dark, save for a sliver of light beneath Thomas’s door. Martha undressed quietly, peeking in.
“Hey. Was Dad home?”
“Yeah,” Thomas said, not looking up from his notebook. “Came and left.”
“Did he say when he’d be back?”
“Nope.”
“I’ll make dinner.” She stepped out.
They’d met by chance—Oliver stopping her on the street, asking for directions. He kept “running into” her after that. When he proposed, her mother had urged her to say yes.
“You’re young. He’s stable, has a flat, a car. Love fades. Better safe than sorry.”
So she’d agreed. Told herself she’d learn to love him. She didn’t. When she got pregnant, her first thought was ending it. Fear stopped her.
Her mother’s voice echoed: *He pays for my medicine. My surgery. Without him, I’d be—*
Still. How do you live without love? Comfortable, yes. Empty.
Then, a year ago, she’d met Oliver. Her heart, starved for affection, latched on fiercely.
The front door slammed. Her husband’s heavy footsteps. He walked into the kitchen, sat without a word.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” she said, back turned.
Silence. She glanced over—he was staring blankly.
“Everything alright?”
He jerked, met her eyes. Fear? Or exhaustion?
“You tell me,” he muttered.
“Ran into an old schoolmate. Lost track of time.”
She didn’t need to explain. He hadn’t asked. Yet the words spilled out.
“I’ll call Thomas.” She fled, relieved by the reprieve. His tension radiated like heat.
They ate in silence.
“What’s wrong?” she finally asked.
“Nothing now,” he said, gaze dropping to his plate.
*Now?* Her stomach twisted.
Women know things before they *know*. She sensed it—he *knew*. Had done something. What? She barely made it to the bathroom.
“Are you sick?” His voice at her back made her jump.
“Bad takeaway,” she rasped.
He watched, as if waiting for a confession.
“I’ll be out soon.” She turned on the tap. He lingered, then left.
She sagged, splashed water on her face. Her reflection was ghastly. She fished her phone from her bag, dialed Oliver.
*”The number you have dialed is currently unavailable—”*
Rarely did she call when he was home. No matter. *He’d* call *her*.
Back in the living room, the TV showed a wrecked car. Oliver’s license plate.
*”—collision at the intersection of Elm and Churchill—”*
Her lungs locked.
Her husband turned. “You okay?”
He guided her to the sofa, brought water. She sipped, hands shaking.
“You’re pale.”
She looked up—*saw* him. *It was him.*
“You!” she choked.
“Me?”
“You killed him! You *knew*!”
Thomas ran in. “Mum? Dad?”
“Go to your room!” her husband barked.
Martha couldn’t stop. “*You* followed us! I *hate* you!”
She tried to stand. He shoved her down.
“Nowhere to run now,” he sneered. “Did you think I didn’t *know*? Wasn’t I good enough?”
She’d never seen him like this.
“Go, then. Back to the gutter I pulled you from. You think *he’d* pay for Thomas’s school? For your mother’s *funeral*?”
She didn’t flinch. Let him kill her. Without Oliver, what was left?
“I *hate* you,” she spat.
The punch came hard. Darkness.
Thomas’s scream woke her. He clungAnd as the years passed, in their small flat by the sea, she realized that love—true love—had been worth every risk, every tear, every shattered piece left behind.
