I was getting ready for bed when Arthur came home.
He hugged me from behind, and I stiffened as a sweet, cloying scent washed over me. Instinctively, I took a couple of deep breaths.
He turned me to face him and explained, "I got dusty moving furniture, so I just washed up quickly at Aria's. Don't overthink it.
"Also, Aria's the type who posts everything on Instagram. She's pretty sentimental," he added, trying to justify Aria's recent post.
I loved posting, too.
For those of us who studied languages, self-expression was second nature.
"You people just love baring your souls on social media. Don't you think it's kind of invasive?" he remarked.
After that, I never forgot Arthur's words before posting anything, and eventually, I just stopped altogether.
Arthur pulled me close, pressing my face against his chest.
I shoved him away forcefully.
He looked surprised.
"What's wrong now?
"Look, I'm exhausted, but I rushed home to be with you. I'm not asking for sympathy, but at least don't give me grief when I'm this tired."
"If it was such a hassle, why didn't you just stay there? It would've been more convenient to look after things," I retorted.
"Charlotte! That's going too far! Aria's not that kind of woman, and we're not in that kind of relationship!"
Arthur's expression turned cold, his earlier gentleness wholly gone.
The next day, Arthur left on a business trip.
I got the news from Aria.
Thanks to her urge to overshare, I spotted a road sign from the neighboring city on her Instagram.
Her photo just happened to show a corner of Arthur's car charm. It was easy to recognize.
She wrote: [My nervousness is yours, my love letters are yours, my sleepless nights are yours, the April mornings are yours.]
She added a shy emoji.
So coy, hinting but not saying outright.
I commented: [The man I don't want is yours, too.]
