Hidden In The Closet’s Dark

The object was small, stupidly small, for the avalanche it triggered. In my palm, it became every late reply, every turned shoulder in bed, every “it’s nothing, don’t worry about it.” My chest burned as my brain raced ahead of the facts, stitching together a betrayal from shadows and half-memories. I was already grieving a relationship that, in reality, hadn’t even been put on trial yet. All that pain, built on a story I’d written alone.