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What is he doing here?

And whose clothes do those belong to?

You mouth his name, and in his eyes, you can see the surprise turn to shame.

The sick feeling in your stomach grows bigger.

You pray that you're wrong. That for the first time in your life, your intuition isn't correct. That what you think happened was merely a misunderstanding. That he didn't do what you think he did.

You want to reassure yourself that you didn't give up your heart in vain.

That he still loves you.

But everything points to the signs.

The fact that he only wears boxers, his smooth muscled skin shining in the soft moonlight.

The pile of mixed clothes on the floor.

The look in his eyes and the ruffled mess of his hair.

Everything tells you what you already know.

"What's going on?" you ask, your voice shaking. He doesn't meet your eyes.

The sick feeling grows deeper in your chest.

"What's going on?" you repeat, your voice stronger and more severe.

Even if your heart can't stand strong, at least you can.

He opens his mouth to reply, but instead, you hear a woman's voice from the bedroom.

Your bedroom.

"Babe, who is that?" you can't seem to look away from the door that it materialized from, as he looks between it and you, unsure of what to do. As though he were the one trapped. As though he were the one who was in pain. As though he were the victim here.

Instead of the murderer.

As she comes into view in the doorway, rubbing her eyes and running her hands through her hair, you can't move. You're frozen, and the world completely disappears, a roar of static noise rising in your ears.

No.

No.

NO.

This can't be happening. Not to you. You were so careful. You were so sure. So sure that he felt the same. So sure that he was yours and yours alone. So sure that nothing would be able to break what you shared. That you had finally found the one.

However, as she looks at you, her green eyes spark with realization. Then as they quickly turn to shame, she avoids your gaze as well.

You know.

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