The atmosphere at home soured. Emily remained gym-obsessed, but her updates lost their earlier purity. Sometimes laced with deliberate boasting, a silent "See, I'm improving without you"; or, when I stayed quiet, a challenging "What now?". I stopped asking, wary of another fight. But doubt and wounded pride, like vines in damp corners, silently coiled tighter. Our conversation dwindled, replaced by phone screens. The living room often held only TV background noise and the soft scrape of scrolling thumbs.
Her Exhaustion
Her return times grew erratic. Texts announced "extra workout" or "Ryan added a special class, can't miss!". When home, she radiated profound exhaustion – not post-workout vitality, but utter depletion. Her face held an unnatural exercise flush, speech sparse. Often, she'd collapse into bed post-shower, hair still damp. Watching her sleep, brow furrowed, profile pale, questions weighted my heart like stones. Asking meant another argument. I swallowed the words, choosing silence.
Collapse
Last Thursday dawned unusually – she hadn't risen early. Breakfast cooked, the scent of frying eggs filling the kitchen, yet she didn't emerge. I pushed the bedroom door open. She lay curled tight, face buried in the pillow, only her messy hair visible. I touched her forehead. Burning. Her voice scraped like sandpaper. "David... fever... dizzy... call work for me." She looked fragile, lips slightly chapped.
NEXT >> 
