His Secret Life, My Shattered Dreams

't changed for Emmett, and now, watching him on stage, his hand brushing Keel

architect husband, Emmett. I happily put my own ambiti

life, caught in a five-year emotional affair with his old flame,

ess and left my bed at 3 AM to soothe her 'creative bloc

baby. His first instinct was to defend her. The shock

the same hospital that day, comforting Keel

al bed, I looked at the m

tt," I said. "I

pte

energy buzzing around her. Her latest indie film, "Echoes of Summer," had just concluded, and the credits were still rolling across the screen. The Q&A se

showed a flicker of distress. Then, a figure emerged from the side, stepping into

beside Keeley, looking utterly at home. He didn't just stand there, either. He took the mic, his voice a calm, reassuring

s if he had lived and breathed every frame. The words flowed from him, articulate and profound, painting a picture of a man utterly consumed by the art. The audience was mesmerized. I watched, my h

and undeniable. They finished each other' s sentences, shared knowing looks, and laughed

't jealousy, not exactly. It was more like a sudden chill in a warm room. I turned to the junior a

mile, hoping to steer the conversation towards Emmett' s unexp

know?" She clasped her hands together, practically bouncing in her seat. Her voice dropped conspira

ry duo. The words echoed in

especially his mother, was totally against it. They wanted him to go into architecture. Said it was more stable." She made a face, as if stabil

cretly. All her scripts. Notes on every cut. My husband, the man who sometimes skimm

rtistic, rebellious past that he' d meticulously hidden from me for five years. Five years of my life, five years of our relationship, building on

by a look of dawning horror. Her eyes darted from my face to the stage, where Emmett and Keeley were now

swelled around us, a deafening roar that swallowed everything else. It

is week, who discussed market trends over dinner, who always seemed a little distant when I talked about my own writing ambitions. He was alw

connection that predated me, eclipsed me. He had always been so careful to avoid talking about his past, especially anything before his architecture career. I had always attributed it to h

hat I was entirely external to. I was his wife, yes, but in this moment, in this room, on this stage, I was nothing more than an audience member. An outsider,