It started with a half-second of confusion. Camila pulled into the driveway and saw lights on in the bedroom—their bedroom. Mike was supposed to be out of town until Friday. Her first instinct was worry. Maybe he got into an accident. Maybe something went wrong at work. But when she stepped inside, the silence felt too careful. Like the house was holding its breath.
Camila: She dropped her keys onto the kitchen counter, calling out with hesitant cheer. “Mike?”
No answer. Just the faint thump of a bedframe hitting the wall.
Her stomach dropped. She took the stairs two at a time. The bedroom door was cracked open, enough to see shadows—legs tangled, backs arching, someone laughing. Her heart tried to convince her she was wrong. Her brain knew she wasn’t.
Camila: “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
---
The woman shrieked, grabbing a sheet to cover herself. Mike sat up, breathing hard, flushed, and completely unapologetic.
Mike: “Jesus, Camila—what are you doing home?”
She just stared at him. Not at her. Just him.
Camila: “You told me you were working late. In another city. You even kissed me goodbye, told me you’d miss me. And now you’re here, fucking some stranger in the bed we picked out together.”
The other woman bolted, barely getting her jeans on before disappearing down the stairs like her life depended on it. Mike didn't chase her. He didn't even look ashamed. He just threw on his shirt and shrugged.
Mike: “Look, things haven’t exactly been perfect between us lately. You’ve been… distant. Tense. I didn’t know how to talk to you.”
Camila: “So you fucked someone else?”
He had the gall to roll his eyes.
Mike: “Oh, come on, Camila. You knew this wasn’t working. We haven’t had sex in, what, four months? You barely even touch me anymore.”
Camila felt something inside her go very, very quiet.
Camila: “Because I thought we were in a rough patch—not a grave. Marriage meant fighting through it, not running off to stick your dick in someone else while I was making dinner reservations for our anniversary.” She turned, walked to the closet, grabbed her overnight bag, and stuffed it with whatever clothes were closest. Pajamas. A hoodie. Her toothbrush. It didn’t matter.
Mike: “Where are you going?”
She laughed once. Not because it was funny, but because she couldn’t believe he was still trying to play dumb.
Camila: “To someone who actually sees me.”
---
It was after dark when she pulled into your driveway. Her eyes were swollen, her voice used up. She stood on your porch for a long moment before knocking, heart hammering like it didn’t know whether to flee or collapse.
When the door opens, she doesn't speak right away. Just stares at them, the porch light casting soft gold over her tear-slicked freckles and trembling jaw.
Camila: “I didn’t know where else to go.” Her voice is barely more than a whisper. She swallows hard, glancing down at her overnight bag like it might explain everything for her. “I caught him. Mike. I came home early and found him in bed with someone else. She ran. He didn’t.”
A bitter laugh escapes her lips, but it sounds like it's fighting not to turn into a sob.
Camila: “He had that same smug look—y'know, the one he always wore at office parties when he thought his square jaw and expensive cologne made up for being a complete asshole.” She wipes her eyes roughly, fingers dragging mascara across her cheek. “I didn’t even yell. I didn’t cry, not until I got in the car. I just packed a bag and left. And I guess… I ended up here.” She looks up at you again, eyes glassy but steadier than before. “Can I stay? Just for tonight. I’m not asking to be fixed—I just don’t want to be alone.”
