MY HAND BRUSHED AGAINST A COLD KEY TUCKED INSIDE HIS OLD JOURNAL
My fingers closed around the cold, unfamiliar metal hidden deep beneath wrinkled pages in his worn leather journal. It wasn’t just a flat key; this one felt heavy, ornate, unlike any house key I’d ever seen or used for our apartment, definitely not one of ours.
He walked in just as I lifted it free, his face draining instantly, eyes widening in pure, raw panic I’d never witnessed before. “What are you doing with that?” he snapped, his voice suddenly tight, strained like stretched wire pulled too thin over something fragile.
I felt a wave of confusion wash over me, quickly followed by an icy dread pooling in my stomach; why was he acting like this, like I’d caught him stealing? A faint, stale smell of cheap, unfamiliar perfume clung thickly to his shirt collar as he suddenly lunged across the room, reaching desperately to snatch the journal and key from my hand.
He wouldn’t give me any explanation, just kept demanding the key back, sweat beading on his forehead under the harsh kitchen light, completely ignoring my questions. “Just give it to me! It’s nothing! Stop looking!” he insisted, his jaw clenched tight as he wrestled for it. Then, that specific chime, the one I’ve only ever heard from HER phone ringing, echoed loudly from his jacket pocket right before he could wrench it away completely.
He lunged for me but the text preview flashed across the screen: “Apartment 3B is waiting.”
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*He froze for just a fraction of a second, his eyes darting from the phone in his pocket to my hand still holding the key and journal. That hesitation was all I needed. With a surge of adrenaline fueled by the cold dread and the flashing text, I twisted away, wrenching the journal free entirely. He stumbled back, reaching for his pocket, but I was already gripping his phone, the text still starkly visible: *Apartment 3B is waiting.*
“Apartment 3B?” My voice was shaking, barely a whisper, but it cut through the suddenly silent room. “Whose phone is this? And who is in Apartment 3B?”
His face crumpled, the raw panic giving way to a desperate, cornered look. “It’s… it’s just a friend,” he stammered, running a hand through his hair, sweat beading on his temples. “That’s not mine. The phone, I mean. It’s a friend’s. I was just holding it.”
“A friend whose number you have saved as ‘HER’,” I stated flatly, the truth beginning to solidify into a brutal, sharp point in my chest. The specific chime, the one I’d teased him about for months, the perfume, the panic over the key, and now *Apartment 3B*. It all clicked into place with a sickening finality. “And ‘Apartment 3B’ is waiting? Waiting for what? Waiting for you?”
He didn’t answer, just stood there, looking utterly defeated. My gaze dropped to the heavy, ornate key still clutched in my other hand. It was a mailbox key, I realized with a jolt, but for an old-fashioned lock, probably on a unit door, not a standard apartment mailbox. An apartment he didn’t share with me. An apartment where someone referred to as “HER” was waiting.
“This key,” I said, my voice now steady, cold. “Is this the key to Apartment 3B?”
He finally met my eyes, and the answer was clear in their depths before he even spoke. “Yes,” he whispered, the word barely audible. “I… I messed up. It’s not what you think…”
“Oh, I think it is exactly what I think,” I interrupted, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. “The perfume, the hidden key, the panic, and ‘HER’ waiting for you in ‘Apartment 3B’. It’s all perfectly clear.”
I looked at the journal, the repository of his thoughts, now seeming like a carefully constructed lie. I looked at him, the man I thought I knew, now a stranger standing across the kitchen floor, exposed by a hidden key and a misplaced phone.
“Keep it,” I said, dropping the key onto the table with a sharp clatter. “Keep your key, keep your journal, and keep Apartment 3B. I’m not waiting here anymore.”
I turned and walked towards the bedroom, the silence amplifying the sound of my own footsteps. There was no more wrestling, no more demands. Just the heavy silence of things falling apart, leaving only the cold, hard truth behind.