The late-night light from the laptop screen cast elongated shadows across the living room as Eleanor crept closer. David's brow was furrowed, his fingers flying across the keyboard with a furious intensity she’d never witnessed. The click-clack of the keys filled the silence, punctuated only by his occasional muttered pronouncements. She leaned in, her breath catching in her throat, trying to decipher the words. They were hers. The phrases, the turns of thought, the way the character in the text moved and spoke – it was a thinly veiled version of her. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She was being dissected, laid bare.
She pulled back, suddenly cold. The air conditioning hummed, but it did nothing to alleviate the chill that had settled deep within her bones. She needed to know. She had to understand. She circled the room, her gaze darting from object to object, as if searching for a hidden camera. It wasn't there. But the story was.
He’d claimed he was working on code, a new project. Lies dripped from his lips. She clenched her fists, her nails digging crescents into her palms. She would have to discover what he was saying. She would have to study it.