**Diary Entry**
I lay on my back, Martha’s head nestled in the hollow of my collarbone. Her leg draped over mine, her palm pressed softly against my chest, right above my heart. The steady rhythm of her breathing made me ache with happiness. “If only we could stay like this forever,” I thought, closing my eyes.
A sudden jolt startled me awake. Martha stirred beside me.
“Is it time?” she mumbled drowsily.
From the sofa, I couldn’t see the window, but the deepening darkness told me evening had fallen—long past when we should’ve left our little refuge. God, I didn’t want to go.
We’d met too late, both of us bound by duty—families, children, obligations. We lived from one stolen afternoon to the next, desperate for these few fleeting hours together. An involuntary sigh escaped me, and Martha lifted her head.
“It’s pitch black!” she gasped, bolting upright.
Where her hand had just rested, my chest felt suddenly cold. She was still here, still close, but already, my heart ached with loneliness.
“Get up. We’ve got to go. What am I supposed to tell my husband?”
“The truth,” I said, tossing aside the sheet and standing.
We dressed quickly, avoiding each other’s eyes. I didn’t care what waited for me at home. I’d made peace with it long ago—lying, hiding, all of it. But she was tense, irritated at how carelessly we’d wasted our precious time.
“Tell him you ran into an old friend—someone from school. You lost track of time,” I suggested.
“He knows all my friends. He might call them,” she said, refusing to look at me.
“Then make one up. Say it was just an acquaintance, someone from years ago.”
“And what will *you* tell your wife?” Martha stopped buttoning her blouse, staring at me.
I stepped closer, pulled her into my arms, and searched her eyes.
“She stopped asking questions long ago. She knows,” I murmured before kissing her, and she melted against me. The darkness wrapped around us like a shroud, reluctant to let go.
Martha pushed me away gently but firmly.
“We’ll never leave if we keep doing this,” she said, fastening her blouse.
I wanted to reassure her, to tell her we could end this charade, come clean—I’d begged her a hundred times. But there were the children: my sweet ten-year-old Lizzie, her twelve-year-old son, Harry.
When we first started meeting, I thought it would fizzle out after a few reckless nights. But it didn’t. I’d sacrifice everything for her—but would she do the same? She always dodged the question, begged for more time. Another sigh escaped me.
“Don’t be cross—we agreed,” Martha said, her voice edged with guilt.
“You head down to the car, keys are in my jacket. I’ll tidy up,” I said, gathering the sheets.
“Don’t take long,” she called from the hallway.
How quickly the hours had slipped away. Usually, after the passion faded, we’d talk, make plans—but today, we’d fallen asleep. The meeting felt unfinished, hollow.
The dim light from the hallway barely touched the room. The door clicked shut. She was gone. I folded the sofa bed, stowed the sheets—the landlady never touched them. A quick glance confirmed no trace of us remained.
In the cramped entryway, I pulled on my coat, fished out a few banknotes (withdrawn from the ATM earlier), and left them on the side table. A flick of the switch, and I stepped into the corridor.
The flat—rented by the hour—belonged to an elderly widow. A colleague had tipped me off years ago. The woman always cleared out before our meetings—where she went, I didn’t know. She needed the money; we needed the privacy.
A hotel would’ve been easier, but risky—too many prying eyes, too many strangers’ ghosts in the sheets.
On the stairs, I passed a woman laden with shopping bags. Instinct made me nod, but she just glared, suspicion burning in her eyes.
In the tower block where I lived with my wife and daughter, greetings were automatic, even among strangers. But here, in this old brick terrace, no one trusted outsiders.
I slid into the driver’s seat, glancing at Martha.
“Ready?”
Her face was unreadable in the dark.
“Maybe you’re right,” she said softly. “Maybe we *should* talk—end the lies for good. But where would we go?”
Even she felt the weight of the unspoken.
“We’ll find a place. Rent something temporary.”
“Like *this* place?” Her voice trembled.
I didn’t answer, focusing on the road. Traffic thickened as we neared the city centre. I pulled over a few streets from her home. She leaned in for a last kiss—a final moment before parting.
“Tuesday?” she whispered, pulling back. Her eyes glistened—was it the streetlight, or tears?
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I promised.
She opened the door, got out, and walked away without looking back.
I sat there, foolishly hoping she’d change her mind, turn around. Then, with a sigh, I drove home.
***
The flat was dark when she returned, save for the sliver of light under Harry’s bedroom door. Martha undressed quietly and peeked in.
“Hey. Dad home?” she asked, leaning over his shoulder.
“Hey, Mum. He came and went.”
“Did he say where? Or when he’d be back?”
“Nope,” Harry muttered, scribbling in his notebook.
“I’ll make dinner.” She retreated to the kitchen.
We’d met by sheer chance. I’d pulled over near her university, asking for directions. The house was buried deep in the maze of streets—she didn’t know how to explain, so she offered to show me.
After that, I waited for her outside lectures, collecting her under the envious eyes of her classmates.
When I proposed, her mother urged her to accept.
“You’re young. He won’t stray. You’ll want for nothing. What more do you need? Love burns out faster than kindling. First comes passion, then drink, fists, affairs… But with him? Stability. A flat, a car, no vices.”
So she agreed. Back then, she thought she’d grow to love him. She didn’t. When she found out she was pregnant, her first thought was to end it. Then came the guilt.
“You’ll have a son—someone to care for you when you’re old. *He* paid for my eye surgery. Buys my blood pressure pills. Thanks to him, I can still walk…”
All true. But how do you live without love? Comfortably, securely—and utterly empty. Then, a year ago, she met me. Her heart, starving for affection, answered without hesitation.
The front door clicked open. Footsteps in the hall. Her husband walked into the kitchen and sat down.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” she said, her back to him.
Silence. After a minute, she turned. He was staring blankly at the table.
“Are you all right?”
He flinched, then met her eyes—anxiety, fear, something.
“*Are you?*” he countered.
“Ran into an old friend… Well, not a friend, someone from school. We lost track of time.”
She hadn’t needed to explain—he hadn’t even asked—but the words spilled out.
“I’ll call Harry. We’ll eat.”
She fled, relieved by the reprieve. His unease clung to him like a fog.
Dinner was silent.
“What’s wrong? Something’s bothering you,” she finally said.
“Not anymore.” His eyes flicked to hers, then away.
*Not anymore?* Her stomach twisted. Women always *know* before they *know*.
She barely made it to the sink before retching.
“Are you ill?” His voice behind her made her jump.
“Must’ve been bad takeaway,” she croaked.
He stood there, watching, as if waiting for a confession.
“I’ll be right there,” she muttered, running the tap.
When he left, she sagged against the sink, then snatched her phone from her bag and dialled my number.
“The phone you are calling is switched off—”
Rarely did she call when I was home—I’d asked her not to. But tonight, it didn’t matter.
Returning to the living room, she froze. The TV screen showed a mangled car—*my car*—just an hour after she’d stepped out of it.
A reporter droned on: “… collision between an SUV and a saloon at the junction of Elm Road and Victoria Avenue…”
Martha couldn’t breathe. Her husband turned, seeing her gasp.
“You’re shaking. Are you sick?”
She shook her head, gulping water from the glass he handed her.
“Why so upset? Did you *know* himShe clutched the phone tighter as my voice crackled through the line—alive, bruised, but breathing—and in that moment, she knew the lies were over, the fear was gone, and whatever came next, we’d face it together.
