She hit me with it out of nowhere. One second we were clearing the dinner dishes, the next she was standing by the sink, arms folded tight, eyes too serious.

“We need to talk. I need to be honest about something.”

My spine iced over. Nobody uses that tone unless they’re about to break something you care about. The plate in my hand suddenly felt like a fragile, pointless prop. I set it down before I dropped it.

“Okay,” I said, already bracing. “Tell me.”

She exhaled like she’d been holding that breath all week. The kind of sigh that says this isn’t a small confession. She pressed her fingertips to the counter and tapped, rapid and uneven. She does that when she’s anxious or figuring something out-usually while reorganizing a drawer or cabinet. But my mind wasn’t connecting dots. I was too busy dying inside.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” she said. “But I didn’t know how.”

My pulse jumped. The room felt too quiet. The refrigerator hum suddenly sounded like a funeral march.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

She didn’t answer right away. She paced. She rubbed her forehead. She stared at the ceiling like she wanted answers written there. All the classic signs of someone about to confess to something terrible, exactly the way people do in movies right before they destroy your life.

“Is it… us?” I asked, hating how shaky my voice got. “If something’s wrong, just tell me.”

Her face flickered-surprise, then something softer, then something unreadable. “No. No, it’s not that.”

But she wasn’t meeting my eyes, which didn’t help my blood pressure in the slightest.

She kept pacing. I kept trying not to imagine every worst-case scenario known to humanity. Had I missed something huge? Forgotten some anniversary? Said something stupid I didn’t realize was stupid? Was she unhappy? Had she been unhappy for months? Was she about to say she needed space? Time? A break?

She stopped moving, finally. “I just… I haven’t been totally honest. And it’s going to sound bad. I know it is.”

My throat went dry. “Then say it.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it again. Pinched the bridge of her nose. Stepped back. You’d think she was about to confess to international espionage, not talk to the person who shares her grocery list.

“I don’t want you to think I lied,” she said quietly. “I just didn’t tell you.”

“That’s… pretty much the definition of lying,” I said, trying to smile but feeling sick.

She winced. Not a great sign.

I tried to stay calm, tried to keep breathing normally, but I could feel the floor tilting under me. I thought about the last few weeks, trying to find clues. She’d been staying up later. Doing "projects" in the kitchen.

Now it felt like everything.

“Whatever it is,” I said, “I’d rather know than sit here imagining the worst.”

She froze at that. Something in her expression cracked for a second-not sadness exactly, but something that made me want to reach for her.

But she stepped back.

“I can’t tell you tonight,” she said softly. “I thought I could, but I can’t. I need one more day.”

My heart dropped into my shoes. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes. Tomorrow.”

I stared at her, confused, terrified, exhausted from emotions I hadn’t even earned yet. She walked closer, hesitated, then rested her hand lightly on my arm.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know this is making you spiral.”

Understatement of the century.

Then she looked up at me-really looked, eyes steady and warm in a way that didn’t match the storm she’d kicked up.

“You know I love you, right?”

It hit me like a punch and a hug at the same time.

I nodded, because my voice wasn’t reliable. She gave a small, sad smile, squeezed my arm, and walked past me toward the hallway.

I didn’t sleep. I replayed every second of that conversation until the sun came up.

And tomorrow couldn’t get here fast enough.

Continue reading (Chapter-2) » Spice Crimes