The house was silent, wrapped in the thick stillness that only 2 a.m. could carry. The air was cool, the moonlight streaming through the half-open curtains painted silver stripes across the bed.
Sandra was in deep, troubled sleep when she felt a tap on her shoulder.
She stirred slowly, her eyes blinking into the darkness.
“Can you sit up for a moment?” Michael’s voice came softly, but there was something unfamiliar in his tone—something rehearsed.
Sandra turned to him, confused. “Babe… is everything okay?”
He was already sitting up, arms folded, staring ahead as if afraid to face her.
“Everything’s fine. I just… I need us to talk,” he said, adjusting his posture like he was delivering a business proposal—not a personal confession.
“Can’t it wait till morning?” she asked, groggy and unsure.
But he didn’t answer that. His silence was louder than any argument.
She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes and stretching, still trying to clear her mind. “What’s going on?”
Michael inhaled deeply… and then dropped the bomb.
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