The Locked Door
Ethan and I had always shared a quiet, steady kind of love — the kind built on morning coffee, shared glances, and comfortable silence. That’s why it felt so strange when he suddenly decided to move into the guest room.
He blamed my snoring. It hurt, but I tried to laugh it off. I told myself it was temporary. Weeks passed, though, and the door to the guest room stayed locked. Our conversations grew shorter, our laughter faded, and the warmth between us began to cool into politeness.
Then one night, at 2 a.m., I saw the faint glow of light under that locked door. My heart raced. Acting on impulse, I used a spare key I’d hidden years ago.
Inside, Ethan sat hunched at his desk, surrounded by papers, his face lit by the pale glow of his laptop. When I called his name, he flinched — and on the screen behind him were photos and messages of a boy I didn’t recognize.