Rain hammered against the window, blurring the city lights into streaks of orange and white. Eleanor sighed, pushing a stray strand of hair from her face. Another evening spent navigating the same routine: microwave dinner, then scrolling aimlessly through social media. Each day felt like a repeat, the days melting into an indistinguishable mass. She picked up the book she was reading, the pages still pristine, a testament to her lack of focus. She'd been promising herself for weeks to finish it, a promise unkept. She felt a familiar pressure in her chest, a tight knot that seemed to get more pronounced with each passing day.
She walked over to the bookshelf, absentmindedly brushing her fingers across the spines. Her gaze landed on a familiar, leather-bound notebook tucked away behind a collection of cookbooks. It was Liam's, and she knew he was fiercely protective of it. Curiosity gnawed at her, a rebellious urge she hadn't felt in a long time.
He was out tonight, at his weekly poker game. She slipped the notebook from the shelf, its weight surprisingly comforting in her hands. The first page was a dedication, to her. As she read, a prickle of discomfort spread through her. The character, "Eliza," was eerily familiar. The story, a fictionalized version of their life, was almost too on the nose. Each detail, each nuance, was a reflection of her own life that she felt trapped in.