I continued watching.
Not because I wanted to become suspicious of James, but because something inside me refused to settle.
After everything I had survived, I had learned one painful lesson.
When something changes, you feel it before you can explain it.
James was changing.
I couldn't point to one particular thing and say, This is the proof.
It was the little things.
The way he held his phone.
The way he sometimes walked outside to answer calls.
The way Alberta's name had become something he avoided mentioning.
The way his attention disappeared whenever he was with me.
I kept telling myself that maybe I was imagining it.
Maybe he was simply tired.
Maybe teaching was becoming stressful.
Maybe Alberta really was only a colleague who didn't understand boundaries.
But then another evening came.
James arrived home later than usual.
I was sitting quietly when he entered.
"Good evening."
"Good evening."
He put his bag down.
"You haven't eaten?"
"I'll eat later."
He nodded.
Normally, he would have asked me why.
That day, he didn't.
He picked up his phone.
A message came in.
He read it.
Then he smiled.
I looked at him.
He immediately locked the screen.
I said nothing.
He looked at me.
"You're not going to ask?"
"Ask what?"
He laughed awkwardly.
"Nothing."
I returned my attention to what I was doing.
Inside, however, I was asking a thousand questions.
Who was texting him?
Why did he hide the message?
Why was he smiling?
And why had he suddenly become so careful around me?
I decided not to ask.
Later that night, he was lying beside me when his phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
He didn't answer.
The phone stopped.
A few seconds later, it rang again.
This time, he got up.
"Who is calling?" I asked casually.
"Someone from school."
He walked outside.
I remained in bed.
I didn't follow him.
I didn't listen.
I didn't want to.
But when he came back, his expression had changed.
"Everything okay?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Good."
That was all.
The following day, something else happened.
He came home carrying a small food container.
I looked at it.
"What's that?"
"Food."
"Who gave it to you?"
He hesitated.
Then he answered.
"Alberta."
I stared at him.
He looked at me.
"She brought it to school."
I nodded slowly.
"You told me she was disturbing you."
"She is."
"Then why are you still accepting food from her?"
He sighed.
"Bjei, please."
"I'm not fighting."
"I know."
"I'm asking."
He looked away.
"She just gave it to me."
"And you accepted it."
"Yes."
I nodded.
"Okay."
He seemed surprised by how calmly I responded.
"You're not angry?"
I smiled faintly.
"Should I be?"
He didn't answer.
I took the container from him and placed it on the table.
Then I walked away.
I didn't want to argue.
But my heart was hurting.
It wasn't about the food.
It was about the boundary.
I had asked him to block her.
He refused.
I had asked him to be careful.
He said he would.
Yet here we were.
She was still calling.
Still texting.
Still bringing him food.
Still finding ways to remain part of his life.
And James was allowing it.
That evening, I finally asked him something I had been afraid to ask.
"Do you like the attention she gives you?"
He looked shocked.
"What?"
"Answer me."
"No."
"Then why do you allow it?"
"I don't know."
I looked at him.
Again.
That answer.
I don't know.
It was becoming his favorite answer whenever the truth became uncomfortable.
I took a deep breath.
"James, I'm not asking you to stop talking to every woman at your workplace."
"I know."
"I'm asking you to understand that this woman has already crossed a line."
"She hasn't done anything to me."
"She wrote to you. She calls you constantly. She texts you. She brings you food. She gets angry when you don't spend time with her. And you're still telling me she hasn't crossed a line?"
He became quiet.
I could see that he didn't have an answer.
I continued.
"I don't want to control you."
"I know."
"But I need to feel respected in this relationship."
"You are respected."
"Then show me."
He looked at me for a long time.
Finally, he said,
"I'll handle it."
I nodded.
"Okay."
I wanted to believe him.
I really did.
But something inside me had changed.
I no longer believed promises simply because they sounded comforting.
I needed actions.
That night, I watched him sleep.
He looked peaceful.
I wondered whether he knew how much I was hurting.
Whether he understood how frightening it was to feel someone you loved slipping away while you were still holding their hand.
I thought about my past.
My father.
My mother.
My stepfather.
The people who had betrayed me.
The people who had left.
I had spent years learning not to expect people to stay.
James had made me believe differently.
That was why this hurt so much.
I wasn't only afraid of losing him.
I was afraid of becoming that broken girl again.
The girl who kept asking, Why wasn't I enough?
I didn't want to become her again.
So I made another promise to myself.
I would love James.
I would trust him.
But I would never abandon myself just to keep someone else.
If he chose me, I would know.
If he didn't, I would survive.
I had survived worse.
And perhaps that was what scared me most.
Because I knew I could survive losing him.
I just didn't know whether I could survive discovering that I had been losing him while he was still telling me everything was fine.