"The Way Things Never Were"

At first, it was little things.

The keys weren't where she left them. But maybe she was tired. Maybe she thought she put them on the hook, but really left them on the table. She laughed it off.

Then came the glances—just a little too long. The silences when she spoke. The way he’d look at her after she made a joke, like she'd said something wrong.

“You’re too sensitive,” he’d say, if she brought it up.

She stopped bringing it up.

Once, she asked if he’d picked up milk on his way home like he promised.

“I never said I would,” he said, flipping through his phone. “You must have dreamed it.”

But she remembered the moment exactly—standing at the sink, sun in her eyes, her voice hopeful. “Can you grab milk on the way home?” He’d said yes. She was sure of it. Wasn’t she?

She started writing things down. Small notes, tucked in drawers. “Asked him to fix the tap today.” “He said he’d pick up Emily at 4.” Just so she’d have proof she wasn’t imagining things.

But even with proof, it didn’t matter.

“You probably wrote that after,” he said, when she showed him. “You do that sometimes. You rewrite things.”

She began to cry a lot, alone.

He never yelled. Never hit. He just withdrew. She could be laughing, and he’d stare straight through her like she didn’t exist. She could be crying, and he’d walk out of the room. His silence was louder than screams.

And still, she tried harder.

If she could just be a little more organized. A little more understanding. A little less emotional.

But the more she gave, the less of her there was.

Until one day, she stood in the middle of their kitchen, holding a fork, and couldn’t remember what she’d come in for. She stood still, heart pounding, and whispered, “Am I going crazy?”

That’s when she knew.

It wasn’t the fork. Or the milk. Or the keys.

It was that she no longer trusted herself.

And that was exactly the point.