XVIII - The Moon (OLD)

She knew before she knew... It was in the way the air stilled... whenever he said her name. That woman... That shape behind his smile. There were no lies. Not yet. But the silence he gave her... tasted false. She asked once. Then twice... He laughed, the way men laugh when they don’t understand... they’re already guilty. Or maybe the way that they become, just to match the punishment. She dreamed of them together. Not just flesh, but familiarity— the way he used to touch her hair and mean it. Now his hands were ghosts. His voice, a knife of betrayal. She screamed inside every question. Mortal wounds made by doubt... And still— still, he hadn't touched the other woman. But the dream had. And the dream was louder than truth. He began to flinch when she entered a room. Smelled of defense... Looked at her like a stranger with a loaded gun. She watched him become what she'd already accused. She forged his betrayal in the furnace of her fear. And when it happened— when his lips touched the lips she'd named in her sleep— she didn’t cry. She exhaled. As if the prophecy had freed her. As if the monster was safer once it had a face. Now it had a mouth, and it whispered: “I was always you.”