31. Chapter 31

Chapter thirty-one

A s I look around the room, it hits me that I'm in the living room, and it's pitch dark outside. The faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtains confirms that I must have dozed off the moment I sat down, completely neglecting the list of things I was supposed to do. I rub my hand over my face, trying to shake off the grogginess, and glance at the clock. It’s already eight-thirty.

From what I remember, Laelia isn’t coming home tonight. She's staying with a family for the next two nights to assess how well they can accommodate a child with special needs. The last time she stayed with them was just before our accident. She had told me afterwards that things went well but that the family needed a bit more one-on-one guidance before she could give them the all-clear.

I don’t know much about the child except that she’s seven years old and has a room straight out of a Disney princess movie—packed with dresses, tiaras, and posters that cover the walls. But the little girl faces challenges far greater than most. She’s paralysed from the waist down and also has a learning disability, making it difficult for her to connect with others, including her own family. Socialising doesn’t come easy to her, but Laelia is determined not to let that be a barrier. She’ll go above and beyond to ensure that this little girl gets everything she needs to live her life to the fullest.

I’m immensely proud of Laelia and everything she does. Her dedication to her work is inspiring, and I love seeing her come home with that smile—the one that says she’s made a difference, that she’s helped someone, that a family is better off because of her. It’s a smile that lights up the whole room, and knowing that she’s changed a life for the better makes me fall in love with her all over again.

Even though I want to text her, just to check in and see how everything is going, I know I shouldn’t. She’s not allowed to answer personal messages or calls while she’s working; it could interfere with her ability to focus on providing the best care possible. The rules and regulations are strict, and I get that, but it doesn’t stop me from sending a text now and then, hoping for a reply. I always miss her when she’s away, no matter how long she’s gone. She’s my everything.

Realising there’s no point in trying to be productive now, I head upstairs and crawl into bed. As I’m getting comfortable, I feel a slight movement near my feet. I look down to find Meatball, our cat, staring up at me, his eyes wide and alert as he licks his lips. He’s been my shadow lately, following me around, and surprisingly, he hasn’t gone after my ankles like he usually does. Maybe he feels guilty about something, trying to make it up to me by sparing my ankles this time around.

"Are you giving me special treatment tonight?" I ask, half-expecting no response. But Meatball blinks slowly, never breaking eye contact. Testing the waters, I pat the spot next to me, and to my surprise, he comes running over, eager for attention. I scratch behind his ears and along his back, and he starts to settle down, curling up into a tight ball on Laelia’s pillow. He’s probably already dreaming about chasing mice.

This behaviour is so unlike him. When Laelia is away, he usually keeps his distance, only coming to me when he’s hungry—and even then, it’s just a quick visit. But now, he’s seeking me out, wanting to be close, wanting to be comforted. It’s strange, and the more I think about it, the more unsettled I become.

Shaking off the unease, I try to clear my mind. I turn over to face Laelia’s side of the bed, and something catches my eye—a faint glint in the moonlight sneaking through the gap in the curtains. I squint, leaning closer, and realise it’s her engagement ring. My heart skips a beat. Why has she left it behind again?

As far as I know, there aren’t any work-related restrictions on wearing jewellery, aside from avoiding anything too revealing in her attire. There’s no reason for her ring to be here unless she forgot it after her shower earlier. I pick it up and turn it over in my fingers, noticing the layer of dust that has settled on it. It dawns on me that it hasn’t been worn in a while, just sitting there untouched. But why would her ring be dusty if she only left it here this morning?

A sense of unease starts to creep in, but I push it aside. I move to place the ring back on the bedside table when something else catches my attention—her phone, lying next to the lamp. Why would her phone be here?

I pick it up and find that it too is covered in dust, deepening my confusion. Everything seems off—why is there dust on her phone? Why does it look like nothing has been touched for weeks?

I wipe away the dust and press the power button, but the screen remains black, except for a flashing battery symbol. It’s dead. Why would she leave her phone behind, and why is it dead? Laelia never leaves her phone. It’s practically an extension of her.

Going to plug it in, I realise that her charger is missing. The unease I’ve been trying to suppress comes rushing back. What the hell is going on?

I plug her phone into my charger and set it down on my bedside table, my mind racing with questions. Her engagement ring is still in my hand—I’d forgotten to set it down, too distracted by the mystery of her phone. I look at the ring again, turning it over in my fingers, feeling the weight of it and all it symbolises. Why are these things still here? The ring I can sort of explain away, but the phone, the dust—it’s all too strange, too unsettling.

Laelia’s phone is her lifeline. She takes it everywhere, even into the bathroom when she showers or uses the toilet, mostly for the music, but still. And the ring—she’s always so proud to wear it, always stealing glances at it, her cheeks turning pink as she remembers our proposal.

Something isn’t right. As I lie there, staring at her side of the bed, the weight of the ring in my hand, a gnawing anxiety starts to take hold. The familiar comfort of our home suddenly feels alien, filled with shadows and questions I can’t answer.

As much as I would love to message her and try to unravel the mystery of why these two items are here, it’s pointless. Her phone is here, and she’s somewhere unknown, in a place that’s clearly off-limits to me and anyone not in the loop. I’m left in no man’s land, grasping for answers that seem just out of reach.

I rub my hand over my face, feeling the frustration gnawing at me, growing with each passing minute. The more I try to piece things together, the more the gaps in my understanding widen. I can’t even ask anyone for help—Laelia is always tight-lipped about her work. The confidentiality she maintains means she doesn’t share much, not even with me, outside of the most basic details. I know almost nothing about her patients or the people she works with, so there’s no real thread to follow, no tangible lead to pursue.

The thought of texting my mum crosses my mind. She and Laelia talk a lot, and maybe she might know something, but I already know it’s a dead end. Even if they talk regularly, my mum wouldn’t have the answers I need—this is something only Laelia can explain. But she’s not here, and that leaves me with nothing but questions.

The idea of looking through her phone crosses my mind, the only real option left if I’m determined to find some answers. But the thought makes me uneasy. Invading her privacy, even with the best intentions, feels like crossing a line I don’t want to cross. I trust her with my life, and going through her phone would betray that trust. Yet, the unanswered questions are eating away at me, and I feel stuck between my principles and my need to know.

What do I do?

The internal struggle rages on. On one hand, the need to protect her, to understand what’s going on, feels overwhelming. But on the other, I know that crossing that line could have consequences. Trust is the foundation of our relationship, and once broken, it’s hard to rebuild.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of thoughts swirling in my mind. Maybe the best course of action is to wait, to trust that she’ll tell me everything when she’s ready, when she’s able to. It’s hard, the not knowing, the waiting, but sometimes, it’s all we can do. As much as I want to act, to do something, maybe the answer isn’t in doing, but in being patient, trusting that the truth will come out in time.

With the bad outweighing the good, my hand trembling slightly as I pick it up. The screen lights up, displaying a blank pass-code box, quietly demanding six numbers. My mind races as I consider what the code could be.

Her birthday?

I type in 131293 … Incorrect.

My birthday?

I try 060591 … Incorrect.

The day we got Satan, our cat?

200120 … Incorrect.

One last option—the night I first saw her in the nightclub, the night that changed everything for us.

With a deep breath, I type 080817 and press enter.

"Yes!" I cheer quietly as the screen unlocks, a mix of relief and guilt washing over me. The small victory is immediately soured by a sinking feeling in my gut. I shouldn’t be doing this. This is a breach of trust, plain and simple. But the need to know, the fear that something might be wrong, had pushed me to this point.

My thumb hovers over the screen, suddenly unsure of what I’m even looking for. The reality of what I’m doing settles in, heavy and uncomfortable. This is her private world, and I’ve just let myself in without permission.

The excitement of cracking the code fades, replaced by a gnawing guilt. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to steady myself. I know I’m doing this out of concern, out of love, but that doesn’t make it right. Every part of me wants to put the phone down, to stop before I go any further. But now that I’m in, the curiosity, the worry, the fear—they all push me forward.

Taking a deep breath, I prepare to delve into the phone, hoping that whatever I find will justify this betrayal, but also hoping that there’s nothing too troubling to find. The battle between trust and fear rages on, but there’s no turning back now.

With the guilt weighing heavily on me, I lock her phone and set it back on the bedside table, trying to shake off the unease. My eyes drift to Meatball, who has re-positioned himself at the end of the bed. He sits there, his gaze fixed on me with what I can only describe as an air of disapproval.

"What?" I ask, my voice carrying a hint of frustration. He blinks slowly, then licks his lips. It feels like he's silently judging me for what I just did, those beady little eyes boring into me with a kind of feline scorn.

"I locked it and put it down, okay? Don’t give me that look." I attempt to explain, though I know he can’t understand a word. He licks his lips again, his gaze unwavering. "I’m just confused and want answers. The only way I’m going to get any is by looking at her phone." His stare remains as intense as ever.

It’s half past nine, and here I am, talking to a cat as if he could offer me some wisdom or comfort. The absurdity of the situation hits me, and I can’t help but feel like I’m losing my mind. My paranoia is getting the best of me, and I’m caught in a whirlwind of what-ifs.

What if I look through her phone and she finds out? What if she loses trust in me? The thought of her being upset, of our relationship being strained because of this, fills me with dread.

What if she’s secretly cheating on me? The fear is a dark shadow lurking in the back of my mind, feeding on the uncertainty and the lack of communication.

What if I go through the phone, and it eases my mind, proving that everything is fine? Or what if it just brings more questions, more doubt, and more regret?

The questions swirl around me, each one feeding into the anxiety and paranoia that’s taking over. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the phone, trying to weigh the consequences of my actions against the need to know the truth.

Drawing on my own moral beliefs, I know I should respect Laelia’s privacy, even though she’s my fiancée. But the internal battle feels like a tug-of-war between the Devil and the Angel on my shoulders, each pulling me in different directions. My curiosity and worry are the Devil’s temptations, whispering that I need answers, while my sense of respect and trust is the Angel’s plea for restraint.

Despite my better judgement, my curiosity wins out. I pick up her phone once more, casting a wary glance at Meatball, who continues to stare at me with those judging eyes.

“Stop judging me!” I snap at the cat, frustration spilling over. His gaze doesn’t waver, and I huff, turning my full attention back to the phone.

As I unlock it, the screen bursts into life, inundating me with a flood of notifications. Text messages, emails, missed calls—thousands of them. The sheer volume is overwhelming, and my heart sinks as I scroll through the endless list, all dated from last week.

Why hasn’t she read or responded to any of this? The barrage of messages makes it clear that she’s been out of touch for a while, and I can’t understand why. I’ve called her a few times over the week, but she hasn’t answered, and it’s only now that I see the extent of her silence.

When I got home earlier, she was here, and everything seemed fine. There was no need to text or check in because she was right in front of me, recounting her day and sharing how she’s been feeling. She’s been spending more time at home recently, taking it easy for the baby and her health, especially after her recent bout of sickness.

The sight of these unanswered messages, though, leaves me unsettled. Why would she leave them unread? Why hasn’t she been in touch with anyone else either? The realisation that she might be overwhelmed or struggling makes my worry intensify, but it also adds a layer of concern I wasn’t prepared for.

I glance back at Meatball, who’s still observing me with an inscrutable expression. I know I need to make a choice. The phone in my hands feels like a hot potato, and every unread message seems to echo my growing anxiety.

It just sits strangely with me that Laelia’s texts and emails are unread. She’s always been the type to respond to everything promptly, and most of her emails are related to work. The fact that none of them have been opened or responded to sends a cold chill down my spine.

I scan through her text messages, hoping to find something that makes sense, but the collection is unsettling. There are messages like:

Miss you xx

Two weeks without seeing you xx

I can't believe what I've just heard!

This can't be real! xx

These messages come from friends and work colleagues, and I’m left even more confused. I can understand the “two weeks without seeing you” text because Laelia hasn’t seen her friends as often lately due to work and the pregnancy. But the others, especially the work-related ones, baffle me.

The unread notifications on her phone, aside from the texts and emails, are mostly subscriptions and promotions. I wonder if maybe she took her Mac-book with her, assuming she could respond to everything there. But wouldn’t the notifications on her phone disappear if she had done that?

A yawn escapes me, and I realise I’m exhausted. I lock her phone and unplug it, setting it back on her bedside table. At least when she comes home, she’ll have some battery left and be able to explain why her phone was left behind. Maybe she was in a rush.

I lie down, trying to get comfortable, but my mind races. The dust on both items—the phone and the ring—doesn’t make sense. We’re both meticulous about keeping the house clean, so it’s odd that there’s dust accumulating.

I turn onto my side, attempting to drift off to sleep, but the swirling thoughts keep me awake. The strange events that have happened since I returned to work only add to my unease. Sydney’s cryptic apology, Angel’s rant about not thinking before speaking, and the neighbour's avoidance of Laelia—all these things seem to converge into a web of confusion and worry.

Why all the pity? Why the worry? Why the ignorance? It feels like there’s a pattern I’m missing, but the pieces just don’t fit together.

As I try to shove these thoughts to the back of my mind, I focus on more comforting thoughts. I think of Laelia, our holidays, our future together, and our little one. I picture us as a family, and the love we share.

I imagine the future we’re building together, the dreams we’ve talked about, and the life we’re creating. The image of us, happy and complete, is the anchor I hold onto as I try to drift off into sleep. Despite the storm of worry in my mind, I focus on the joy and hope that our future holds, hoping that it will help me find peace and rest as I remember one of the times she nearly got her ring.