other.
The second day in Hawaii felt better on the surface.
We did a snorkeling tour in the morning.
We ate lunch near the marina.
We shopped for souvenirs and watched a street musician play while the sky turned orange.
Nate kissed my temple while we waited for dessert.
My mother linked her arm through mine and said, “See? This is what we needed.”
But that night I woke up and found Nate sitting on the balcony alone, staring at his phone.
When I slid the door open, he locked the screen so quickly the movement was almost violent.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he said.
I stood there in the moonlight and looked at him.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.” He forced a smile.
“Just work stuff.”
I wanted to ask why work stuff made him look guilty instead of stressed.
I wanted to ask why he had started sleeping with his phone under his pillow like a teenager hiding secrets from his parents.
I wanted to ask whether he was cheating on me.
Instead I asked, “Are we okay?”
He came over, held my face, and kissed my forehead.
“Of course we are.”
I let him lead me back to bed.
The third day broke everything open.
We had spent the morning at the beach, and by early afternoon everyone was sun-tired and slow.
My parents said they wanted to nap before dinner.
Kayla announced she was going to shower and “maybe wander around the shops.” Nate stood near the dresser, checking the time too often.
Then he said he needed to go out alone.
The sentence itself was simple.
The way he said it was not.
He was already sliding his phone into his pocket when he said, “I just need to clear my head.
I’ll be back in an hour.”
I asked if he wanted me to come.
He smiled too quickly.
“No, babe.
I need to be alone.”
That was the moment the last fragile bit of denial finally gave way.
I waited ten minutes after he left, then slipped on sandals and followed him.
The walk from the hotel felt dreamlike.
The air was thick with sunscreen, flowers, and salt.
Families moved along the sidewalks carrying shopping bags and beach towels.
Music drifted out from restaurants.
A little girl ran past me holding a melting shaved ice the color of a sunset.
Everything around me looked like leisure and brightness.
Nate did not walk like a man taking a calming stroll.
He walked like a man trying not to be late.
He took turns without hesitation.
He did not glance at store windows or the ocean.
He moved with direct, impatient purpose until he reached a side street I had not noticed before.
At the end of it stood a small white chapel tucked behind hibiscus bushes and low stone walls.
He checked his phone, looked around once, and went inside.
I remember the exact sensation that moved through me then.
Not shock first.
Not sadness.
Recognition.
The kind that arrives when your worst fear stops being a fear and becomes a fact.
I crossed the street slowly, trying not to make sound.
The front door of the chapel was open.
I could see rows of chairs, flower arrangements, candles, and a modest altar at the front.
And
