20. The Evidence of silence

The silence of Sunday night weighed on the apartment like a heavy shroud. Jessica lay in bed, eyes wide open in the darkness, staring at the invisible ceiling above her. The ticking of the hallway clock echoed through the emptiness, marking each second of her endless wait.

It was 12:47 a.m.

Grégory still hadn't come home.

For several weeks now, she had noticed the changes. The increasingly rare messages, the vague excuses, the evasive glances. And most of all, the long weekend absences. But that evening, she had decided not to settle for mere suspicions anymore. She didn't want hypotheses. She wanted proof.

She had planned everything. She'd sent an innocent message at 8 p.m., simply asking if he would be home for dinner. He'd replied after 10 p.m. with a curt: "Finishing something. Don't wait up." No "sorry," no "I love you," nothing reassuring. Just a flat, mechanical sentence, devoid of emotion.

So she had gone to bed — or at least pretended to.

Under the duvet, dressed in her cotton pajamas, she lay still, ears attuned to the slightest sound from the hallway. She had left the living room light on, to make it seem like she had waited, then "fallen asleep." But in truth, every creak of the stairwell set her on edge.

Finally, at 1:26 a.m., she heard the key turn in the lock.

Her heart raced.

She quickly closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and regulated her breathing to a slow, steady rhythm. She had to be convincing. Her heartbeat was so loud she feared it would betray her act.

The door opened with a soft creak. Grégory stepped in on tiptoe. Jessica heard the rustling of his coat as he likely placed it on the back of a chair. She also heard the familiar clink of keys dropped into the entryway dish, then the dragging sound of his tired footsteps on the wooden floor.

He didn't even bother to shower.

He entered the bedroom silently, placed his phone on the nightstand, and collapsed onto the bed beside her. She felt the mattress dip under his weight, noticed his slightly labored breathing, as if he had run up the stairs.

But most of all, she smelled him.

A mix of sweat, alcohol, and… something else.

A feminine scent that didn't belong to her.

Jessica tensed internally but remained still. Not a breath faster, not a muscle moved. She had to wait. Be patient. And strike at the right moment.

She waited for Grégory to fall asleep — or at least to show all the signs of deep sleep: heavy, steady breathing, slight snoring. Time dragged on endlessly. Each minute felt like torture.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she slowly sat up, careful not to make a sound. She stayed still for a moment to make sure he wasn't stirring, then got out of bed without turning on the light.

She bent over his clothes left on the chair in the corner of the room.

Black pants.

She picked them up gently, laid them on the bed, and began to search. Her hand trembled slightly, but her mind was cold and sharp. She went through every pocket, meticulously. First the side pockets, where she found only coins and a bar receipt, then...

In the back right pocket, her finger touched something thin, light, crumpled.

She pulled out the small empty wrapper and held it up to the bluish glow filtering through the window from the streetlamp outside.

A condom wrapper. Empty.

A small silver square — discreet, but carrying the weight of a world. She didn't recognize the brand. It wasn't the one they used — when they even used them anymore. Their intimacy had long since dissolved into routine. She held it between her trembling fingers — that little piece of plastic, now judge and executioner.

She felt the rage rise, but also a deep ache in her stomach. A burning humiliation. A silent slap that chilled her from the inside out.

She brought the wrapper to her nose.

The scent was there. Distinct. A mix of latex and cheap, sugary perfume. A feminine scent — one that didn't belong in their bed.

She closed her eyes.

She didn't cry.

Not yet.

She slowly tucked the wrapper into the inside pocket of her robe. A piece of evidence. A weapon. She didn't know yet how she would use it, but she would need it.

She carefully replaced the pants just as they had been, then returned to bed. Grégory shifted slightly, muttering something incoherent before rolling over. Jessica watched him in the dark. That face she had once loved, the face she knew by heart, suddenly seemed foreign.

She lay back down, her heart in pieces, her thoughts swirling.

This was no longer a doubt. No longer a hunch.

This was betrayal.

She remembered the first time they'd moved in together. Their plans, their dreams, the laughter shared over failed recipes, the sleepless nights spent talking under the covers. She remembered the way he used to look at her. With tenderness. With pride. With desire.

Now, he didn't look at her anymore.

He was looking at someone else.

Jessica felt a tear slip down her temple, silent.

But she didn't wipe it away.

She needed that pain. Needed to feel it to wake up. To stop lying to herself.

The wrapper in her pocket burned against her skin like a truth she could no longer ignore.

The next morning, she would be someone else.

Tonight, she had discovered the truth.

And soon, Grégory would discover it too.