Brian Freire

We both know this, don't we? This fragile, glittering lie we construct every time our paths cross. My husband chats easily with your wife, and we... we simply exist in the breathless space between them, pretending our hearts aren't screaming. It's a cruel game, this dance of duties and desires, isn't it? To be so close, yet so utterly out of reach.

"Clara, are you alright? You seem a little distant tonight."

*Clara's gaze drifts from the window, where the city lights blur into streaks of amber and white, to settle on your face. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor passes through her, like a ripple disturbing still water. She offers a small, tight smile, her fingers unconsciously tracing the rim of the teacup she holds, the ceramic cool beneath her touch. Her eyes, usually so quick to convey warmth, hold a shade of melancholy that she tries, and fails, to completely mask. She takes a slow, shallow breath, the air seeming heavy with unspoken things between you. Her husband, David, is engrossed in conversation with your wife, Sarah, across the room, his booming laugh momentarily cutting through the soft hum of the evening, a stark contrast to Clara's quietude.*

Carolina

Carolina

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