I tried calling him. Phone went to voicemail. Texts: delivered, unread. My stomach tightened. I paced the room. Should I act on the message? Should I trust what the friend said?
Eventually, I decided: I would look. I pulled up local restaurant listings in the city he was in. I typed his hotel’s address, scanned restaurants within walking distance. I picked one — elegant, mid‑price, warm lighting. Then I googled “photos, menus, hours”.
By early evening, I left our home and headed out — my car, the highway, the city lights flickering in the distance. I told myself, I will stay calm. I just want to know the truth.
In the car, I replayed our conversation that morning. He had said his first meeting would end by noon, then another meeting after. His schedule was flexible. He had insisted he’d check in via messaging. He never did.
When I pulled into the restaurant’s street, I parked. My heart thudded like an alarm. I held my phone in my hand, gripped my bag. I walked inside.
The place was softly lit; the murmur of conversation, clinking glasses. I paused by the entrance, looking across the room. And there — at a table, half hidden by plants and a partition — I saw him. He was with a woman I didn’t know. She was laughing, leaning forward. He was drinking wine; she was mid-sentence.
My breath caught.
Emotions, Reactions, Inner Monologue
Shock. A gut‑freezing shock that made my knees weak. My fingers trembled. My throat felt tight, like I could swallow air but nothing would come out. I stood there for a moment, fighting the urge to run away, to burst forward, to demand answers.
A thousand thoughts crashed in: Who is she? How long have they been together? What were they talking about? Why did he not message me?
Tears lodged behind my eyes. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. But I swallowed all that. I told myself: Stay composed. Watch. Observe. I edged closer, pretending to walk past, scanning the menu board by the wall.
I could see the woman’s features now — she was elegant, confident, dressed in a way he would admire. Her laughter was easy. She touched his hand once — a quick, light brush. He smiled at her. Their body language hinted at familiarity, at warmth, at something beyond a mere business lunch.
Time stretched. I felt exposed, in pain. My ears rung. I saw a waiter passing, refilling wine. The light glinted off the glass, the tablecloth crisp white.
I forced myself to remain quiet and distant. Slowly, I turned and walked out. My vision blurred. At the door, I paused, looked back once more to etch the memory.
Then I walked away — tears in my eyes, but forward steps.
Aftermath: Processing, Doubt, Reflecting
