Part I — Sarah
The silence after the door clicked shut was unbearable.
Sarah Crane stood frozen in the living room, one trembling hand still extended toward the doorway where Alister had just walked out.
She had rehearsed so many versions of tonight in her head—apologies, explanations, bargaining. But none of them prepared her for the wreckage that now lay around her like invisible shards of glass. She had always known Alister was eloquent, precise, the man who could command a courtroom with nothing but his eyes and the measured weight of his words.
But nothing had ever hit her harder than the things he said tonight.
Her knees buckled.
She fell to the floor, hands curling into the carpet, and let out a sound that didn't sound human. A raw sob tore from her throat. Not delicate, not cinematic. Ugly. Guttural. Her whole body shook.
She had lost him.
She didn't know if she was mourning her husband or herself—maybe both. Maybe that's what happens when you cut out the only piece of your soul that was still breathing.
Her eyes darted around the room. Everything looked the same as it did before he got home. Same beige couch. Same soft lighting. Same photo frames lining the shelves. One from college—Sarah laughing, Alister wrapping his arms around her from behind, both of them carefree, golden in their youth.
She stumbled toward it and picked it up.
"God," she whispered. "What have I done?"
The weight of it hit her all at once. Not just the affair. Not just the betrayal. But the realization that somewhere along the way, she had stopped seeing the man in front of her. Stopped hearing him.
It had started with the miscarriage.
The day the ultrasound came back with no heartbeat, Sarah's world caved in. There were no good words, no right ways to grieve a child that had never been born. She had spent nights curled in bed, screaming into pillows, unable to breathe without pain.
And through it all, Alister was there. Quiet. Steady. Present.
At first, she needed him like oxygen. She leaned on him. Clung to him.
But then, as the days blurred into weeks and months, she began to feel like a stranger inside her own body. Her sketches became empty. Her job at the design house turned mechanical. Even the compliments from magazines and followers on social media felt hollow.
She remembered the first time he messaged her—Ethan, Alister's old college friend. They had worked together on a fashion collaboration years ago. He slid into her DMs with a memory, a joke, nothing serious. At first, it was a distraction. Then a conversation. Then attention. Then—
Sarah covered her mouth with her hand as if she could choke the truth back down.
She had cheated.
She had let someone else touch the broken pieces Alister had so carefully held for her.
But what cut deeper than her guilt was the clarity that came with Alister's words tonight.
He had suffered too.
And she had been blind to it.
Her grief had been loud, all-consuming. He had been silent. He was the one who kept moving when she couldn't. Who made the doctor's appointments, paid the bills, refilled her prescriptions. The one who cried alone in the bathroom so she wouldn't spiral further.
She curled up into herself on the couch, the same couch he had once fallen asleep on, holding her during one of her panic attacks.
Why didn't I ask him if he was okay?
The question hit like a truck.
She had told herself he was strong. That he could handle it. That he was fine.
But now she knew.
He wasn't.
And he never had been.
The worst part? He had tried. He had loved her deeply, consistently, even while she was fading away. He had given her the kind of love that didn't flinch when things got ugly. The kind that endured through death, distance, and disillusionment.
And she—Sarah Jenkins Crane—had repaid that with betrayal.
Not just of body, but of trust. Of everything they had built since high school.
She sobbed again, pressing her face into the pillow, clutching the old hoodie he left on the armrest. It still smelled like him. Bergamot and leather. The scent of safety.
A flash of memory cut through her tears.
It was their senior prom.
Alister had shown up at her doorstep, tie crooked, carrying a corsage of red orchids—her favorite. She had teased him for the clumsy way he pinned it to her dress. He just smiled, kissed her on the forehead, and whispered, "One day, I'm going to marry you."
And he had.
They had made it.
Until now.
She didn't know how long she lay there—ten minutes? An hour? The minutes blurred together. Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. Probably her mother. Or her manager. Or the label begging for sketches she hadn't even started.
She didn't care.
Nothing mattered right now except the shape of the silence Alister had left behind.
Finally, Sarah sat up. Her limbs felt heavy, like she had aged a decade in an hour.
She looked around the house—their house.
And for the first time, it didn't feel like home.
It felt like a mausoleum.
A tomb of what they had been.
And the only thing left inside it… was her.
Part II — Alister
The air outside hit him like a slap.
It was cold—not from the weather, but from the kind of emptiness that seeps into your chest when your life breaks in half.
Alister Crane walked down the street with no destination, his phone clenched in one hand, his other jammed into his coat pocket. He didn't even remember grabbing his keys. His blazer was still lying on the armchair in the living room. Not that it mattered.
He walked three blocks before stopping at a bench under a flickering streetlamp. His legs gave out. He sat.
And for a moment, he just breathed.
One inhale. Two.
He wasn't okay.
God, he wasn't okay.
Everything hurt.
And not in the sharp, immediate way pain usually comes—but in that slow, consuming way grief sneaks in when betrayal settles in your bones.
He opened his phone. His lock screen photo was still a candid picture of Sarah, mid-laugh, wind whipping her hair across her face. He almost threw the damn thing.
Instead, he clicked on contacts.
Scrolled.
Stopped at one name.
Marcus Crane – Big Bro
He hesitated.
Marcus was ten years older, practically a second father to him after their parents died in that car crash when Alister was sixteen. The man was tough, didn't say much, but always showed up when it counted.
Alister pressed 'Call.'
The line rang twice before a groggy voice answered.
"Al? Everything alright? It's late."
Alister tried to speak, but his voice cracked.
"Marcus…"
A pause.
Then, "What happened?"
Alister swallowed. "It's Sarah."
A longer pause.
"I'm guessing this isn't a 'we had a small fight about laundry' kind of call."
"No." Alister laughed bitterly. "It's a 'my wife of eight years has been cheating on me for a year and I just walked out' kind of call."
Another silence.
And then, "Where are you?"
"Near 5th and Hollis. On a bench. I just… I didn't know where else to go".
"Come here," Marcus said immediately. "Stay as long as you need. I'll get the guest room ready. Hell, I'll even dust the whiskey."
Alister let out a hollow chuckle, the kind that sounded more like breaking than laughing.
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me," Marcus said. "You're family. And if you need someone to go knock some teeth in—"
"No," Alister interrupted. "No violence. No drama. I just… I just need space. A place to breathe."
"You'll have it."
A long pause.
Then Marcus added, voice quieter, "I'm sorry, Al. I know how much you loved her."
"I still do," Alister admitted. "That's the worst part."
There was nothing left to say.
They hung up.
Alister sat for a while longer under the yellow glow of the streetlamp, watching cars pass. Watching people go about their lives. Laughing. Living. Loving.
And for the first time in his life, he felt like a stranger to all of it.
Then, finally, he stood, tucked his hands in his coat, and walked into the night.
Not toward healing.
Not yet.
But away from the place where everything fell apart.
And that was enough for now.