Every time Miguel returned home, I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. I caught glances of him stealing a look at me when I ventured close to his side of the bed. Each time, his eyes darted away, leaving me feeling more exposed and vulnerable. I couldn't ignore the chill that settled over our domestic life.
Days passed, and the paranoia clawed at me relentlessly, gnawing at the edges of my sanity. “We need to talk,” I finally said one evening, my voice trembling as I stood in front of him.
He glanced up from his phone, irritation flashing across his face. “About what?”
“About the smell. About what’s really going on.”
“You’re overreacting,” he shot back, his tone dismissive. “It’s probably just something you cooked.” His eyes hardened, and I could feel the air grow thick between us.
“I can’t just ignore it, Miguel!” I pressed, desperation edging into my voice. “This isn’t normal!”
