When I asked her where the pen came from, she only said, “It was a gift,” before retreating to her room. My chest tightened. A gift. So casual, and so final. Who was this man to her, that he could slip into life and belong in it so seamlessly?
The envelopes bothered Martin most. He watched her carefully, noting their crisp edges and their deliberate handling. “That’s not homework,” he muttered one night. “It’s something official.” His tone carried an accusation, though neither of us knew what crime to name. Papers from him, hidden from us—it felt illicit, duplicitous, and dangerous. We had no clue what was happening.