I dreamed of doors.
Not the dramatic kind that slammed shut or creaked open in warning, but ordinary ones. Office doors. Apartment doors. The kind you pass through every day without thinking. In the dream, they all led to rooms I had already been inside once, rooms I recognized only after stepping into them again.
I woke before dawn, the sensation of having missed something pressing against my ribs.
He was already awake.
I knew it without turning my head. There was a certain stillness to him when he lay there thinking, his body quiet in a way that felt deliberate, as if movement itself would give something away.
"You didn't sleep," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"I slept," I replied. "Just not well."
He shifted, sitting up, elbows resting on his knees. The faint light from the window caught the lines of his shoulders, the familiar shape of him suddenly feeling less predictable.
"I didn't want you to hear it from her," he said.
"You didn't want me to hear it at all," I corrected.
He rubbed his hands together slowly, a habit he had when he was choosing his words. "I didn't want it to define us."
"It already does," I said quietly. "You just didn't want me to know how."
The silence that followed wasn't defensive. It was thoughtful. That almost made it worse.
"I should have told you before we married," he said.
"Yes," I agreed. "You should have."
"I didn't think it mattered anymore."
"That's not how unresolved things work," I said. "They don't stop mattering just because you stop looking at them."
He nodded once, accepting the truth of it without protest. "What did she say to you?"
"That you weren't honest about how you left," I replied. "That you made choices that affected other people and never closed the door properly."
"That's accurate."
"And?"
"And I hoped time would dull it," he said. "I hoped I wouldn't have to answer for it again."
I sat up, pulling the sheet around myself. "You don't get to decide when the past stops speaking. Especially when it's still shaping how you live now."
He turned toward me fully. "Is that what you think this is about? Control?"
"I think it's about comfort," I said. "Yours."
He didn't deny it.
We dressed without looking at each other, the familiar routines suddenly stripped of intimacy. When we reached the kitchen, he poured coffee for both of us out of habit, then paused, as if remembering that habits no longer carried the same meaning.
"I'm meeting her today," I said.
His hand stilled on the counter. "I'd rather you didn't."
"I know," I replied. "That's not a reason."
"She won't tell you anything I haven't already said."
"She'll tell me what you chose not to," I said. "There's a difference."
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
"I'm not asking permission," I added. "I'm informing you."
"I hear you."
"No," I said. "You're listening. Hearing would mean accepting that you don't get to manage this."
He looked at me for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his eyes. "Be careful," he said finally.
"With what?"
"With how much you let other people rewrite our history."
I picked up my bag. "I'm not afraid of the truth rewriting anything. I'm afraid of what silence already has."
The café Laura suggested was small and unassuming, tucked between a bookstore and a dry cleaner. She was already there when I arrived, seated by the window, hands wrapped around a mug she hadn't touched.
She stood when she saw me, her expression cautious. "Thank you for coming."
"I didn't come for you," I said, taking the chair across from her. "I came for clarity."
She nodded. "That's fair."
She looked nothing like I had imagined. No dramatic presence. No sharp edges. Just a woman who carried herself like someone who had learned to live with unfinished things.
"He didn't tell you about the investigation," she said.
My stomach dropped slightly. "What investigation?"
She inhaled slowly. "There were ethical concerns. Decisions he made that benefited him professionally but left the rest of the team exposed. I was the one who raised the issue."
"And he left before it concluded," I said.
"Yes," she replied. "With a promotion."
The words settled heavily.
"He told you it was resolved," she continued. "That everything was settled."
"Nothing is ever settled when only one person benefits," I said.
Laura studied me carefully. "You sound like you already know that."
"I do," I replied. "I just didn't realize how long I'd been living with the evidence."
She hesitated. "I'm not calling because I want to disrupt your marriage. I'm calling because the same patterns repeat when they're rewarded."
"What do you want from me?" I asked.
"For you to see him fully," she said. "And decide what that means for you."
When I left the café, the city felt different again, as if something invisible had shifted just enough to change the balance of things. I walked for a while without direction, letting the noise and movement ground me.
By the time I returned home, it was late.
He was waiting.
"I spoke to her," I said before he could ask.
"I know," he replied.
That again. "You know everything," I said. "Except when it matters."
He didn't interrupt.
"She told me about the investigation," I continued. "About how you left. About who paid the price."
"I won't justify it," he said. "I made a choice. I would probably make it differently now."
"That doesn't undo it," I said. "And it doesn't explain why you keep doing the same thing."
His brow furrowed. "What same thing?"
"Choosing control over accountability," I replied. "Choosing comfort over honesty."
He stood, closing the distance between us. "I chose you."
"You chose me the same way you choose everything else," I said. "When it suits you."
The words hung between us, sharp but necessary.
He reached out, stopping short of touching me. "I don't want to lose what we have."
"Then stop pretending it survives on silence," I said. "Stop deciding for me what I can handle."
His hand dropped.
That night, the bed felt larger than before, the space between us no longer just physical. I lay awake, thinking about choices and consequences, about how easily love can coexist with things it shouldn't excuse.
I didn't know what this would turn into. But I knew this much. Whatever came next would not be shaped by what he withheld. It would be shaped by what finally came to the surface.