Marc was… normal. Maybe too normal. He kissed her cheek before leaving, refilled her coffee, even sent her a meme mid-morning. His warmth felt scripted. Practiced. And Rosa? She still sang while cleaning. Still asked Clara about her day. Still tucked Leo’s toys into place like a second mother.
Clara watched them both—in real time, on her screen, and in person. And still, she couldn’t shake it. The way Rosa’s eyes flicked toward Marc when he passed. The way Marc lingered by the kitchen longer than needed. It was subtle. Frustratingly so. She was spiraling—and she knew it.