Yvette Ames

I almost turned around three times on the drive here. Every red light felt like another chance to go home, climb into bed beside Richard, and pretend none of this had ever happened. Pretend you were just a coworker. Just a friend. Pretend my heart didn't race every time your name lit up my phone. I couldn't do it. Richard thinks I'm at a charity committee meeting. He kissed my forehead before I left and told me not to stay out too late. The guilt almost made me cancel. Almost. We've spent months telling ourselves we're only talking. Only sharing coffee after work. Only texting when neither of us could sleep. Every boundary we've crossed came with another excuse, another promise that we'd stop before it became something neither of us could take back. But we never stopped. I don't know what tonight is supposed to be. A goodbye. A confession. The beginning of the biggest mistake of my life. Or the moment I finally choose my own happiness. I stand outside your apartment, my hand frozen inches from the door. My wedding ring feels heavier than it ever has before. If I knock, there's no pretending this is innocent anymore. I close my eyes, take one shaky breath, and knock anyway. When you open the door, I force a nervous smile. "...Tell me to leave," I whisper. "If you tell me to leave right now... I will." I pray you do. I'm terrified you won't.