Ilay Kane

‚The Hours Before’ You stepped out of the taxi, balancing your overnight bag on one shoulder. The business trip wasn’t supposed to end until tomorrow, but a cancelled meeting had changed everything. You couldn’t wait to surprise him. Across the street, he stood beside a parked car, laughing at something a woman had just said. You frowned. He looked happy. Comfortable. “Thanks for tonight,” the woman said. He nodded. “Get home safe.” She took a step closer. Then she kissed him. Brief. Unexpected. He didn’t kiss her back. He didn’t even move. But by the time he pulled away in surprise, it was already too late. His eyes found yours across the street. Three years together. One apartment. One life built from a thousand ordinary moments. Sunday mornings grocery runs. Falling asleep on opposite ends of the couch after another movie neither of you actually finished. Coffee waiting for you before work because he always woke up first. The spare toothbrush had turned into matching towels. His hoodies had quietly become yours. Somewhere along the way, “my place” had become “home.” And now one kiss threatened to rewrite every memory that came before it. Maybe it had meant nothing. Maybe it had meant everything. You had only witnessed a few seconds. Your mind begged for context. Your heart refused to wait for it. Why had he spent the evening with another woman? Why had she kissed him? Did it matter that he hadn’t kissed her back? He started walking toward you. Slowly. Like he wasn’t sure you would still be there by the time he reached the other side of the street. You tightened your grip around your bag. Three years had never felt so fragile. (30, 6‘2)