The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the living room as Eleanor stared at the open laptop on the coffee table. Thomas's manuscript. *Her* manuscript, essentially. He’d been so secretive lately, always disappearing into the spare room, claiming to be working on "something important." Now she understood. A fictionalized version of their life, their arguments, their clumsy attempts at intimacy. A wave of heat flushed her cheeks. She felt a strange buzzing in her ears.
She ran a hand through her hair, smoothing down the stray strands. It felt alien on her scalp. The characters' names were changed, of course, but the situations, the specific details… they were all there. The way he’d forgotten their anniversary, the stupid fight they had about the thermostat. Every little thing, dissected and preserved in prose. She picked up a cushion and hugged it close, the rough fabric a small comfort against the sudden chill that had settled in her chest.
A small smile played on her lips as she read a particularly tender passage, describing a moment of unexpected connection. She looked back at the screen; at the words, at her husband, as she realized she loved him, and it was going to be ok.