The harsh yellow light of my Brooklyn kitchen flickered overhead, casting long shadows as I stood in front of the pantry, arms crossed, staring at the enormous plastic jug of olive oil crouched on the bottom shelf. Five liters—no, maybe more. It was so out of place among my neat rows of spices and pasta, so absurdly excessive that my mind stuttered over it. Had Michael bought this? When? Why?
I reached out to touch the slick surface, my fingers lingering on the cool plastic. We didn’t cook that much. I couldn’t remember the last time Michael even helped me prepare dinner. My reflection in the stainless steel fridge caught my eye—a woman in her thirties, hair pulled back too tightly, lips pressed together until they looked bloodless. I forced myself to breathe. Maybe he’d found some bulk deal online. Maybe it was nothing. Still, the unease gnawed at me.
Dinner that night was quiet, the air between us thick with the scent of roasted chicken and tension. Michael sat across the table, scrolling his phone with his jaw clenched, the olive oil a silent witness behind me. I pushed my fork into the mashed potatoes, watching him out of the corner of my eye.
“Did you buy that huge olive oil today?” I asked, keeping my voice light, almost teasing. “It’s enough to last us a year.”
He didn’t look up. His thumb moved faster on the screen.
“Yeah. Got it in bulk. Saves money.” His tone was clipped, almost irritated, as if I’d accused him of something. He didn’t meet my eyes, just continued scrolling—an impenetrable wall behind his glasses. I waited, hoping for a smile, a joke, anything. There was nothing but silence. I swallowed, the mashed potatoes sticking in my throat.
Later that evening, the apartment was quiet except for the distant hum of traffic outside. I ordered pizza, my small act of rebellion—something easy, something Michael used to love. The box sat steaming on the counter, the scent of tomato and cheese curling through the air like a memory. I waited for him, the city’s neon bleeding in through the window as midnight crept closer.
When he finally arrived, keys jangling, jacket slung over one arm, he barely glanced at me. His face was blank—a mask of exhaustion. I watched as he paused in the hallway, eyes flicking toward the pizza. The box was gone. I stared, confused, at the empty counter. Did I move it? Was I losing my mind?
“I thought you’d be hungry,” I called, forcing my voice to sound casual. “There’s pizza.”
He waved me off, already peeling off his shirt. "Already ate with the guys at work. I'm full." He disappeared into the bathroom, the door shutting with a final, muffled click. The sound of water running drowned out everything else. I stood alone in the kitchen, the emptiness pressing against my skin, my mouth dry. My stomach growled, but the hunger was something deeper—something I couldn’t feed.
I wandered the apartment, searching for the pizza box. Nothing. No crumbs, no greasy napkins. Only the faint scent of oregano and the echo of Michael’s footsteps. I replayed his words in my head: ate with colleagues. But his eyes hadn’t met mine. His shoulders were tense, his voice flat and cold. My heart thudded with uneasy suspicion.
The next morning, sunlight filtered through the blinds, painting pale stripes across the kitchen floor. I stood at the counter, pouring coffee, watching Michael out of the corner of my eye. He moved quickly—too quickly—gathering apples, oranges, bananas from the fruit bowl and stuffing them into a canvas bag. His movements were jerky, impatient, like he was late for something important.
I tried to sound light, curious, not accusatory. “Why so much fruit? Are you bringing snacks for everyone at work?”
He slammed the fridge door, the sound ringing through the kitchen. "Can you stop interrogating me? Jesus, Emily. It's just fruit. I have an early meeting."
He wouldn’t look at me, his back rigid as he zipped his coat. The air between us crackled with something sharp and bitter. I watched his knuckles whiten on the bag’s handle. My own hands trembled slightly as I gripped my coffee mug, the warmth doing nothing to chase away the chill that had settled in my chest.
He strode out the door without another word, leaving me standing alone in the kitchen, the silence aching. I stared at the olive oil, the empty pizza counter, the half-empty fruit bowl. Each oddity was a puzzle piece, a whisper of something wrong—a secret pressing in from the corners of my home.
As the door slammed shut behind him, a heavy dread settled in my stomach. Something was unraveling, thread by thread, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what I’d find at the end.
But I knew I’d have to look.
I pressed my palm to the cold countertop, staring at the empty spot where the pizza had been. Outside, the wind rattled the window, carrying a promise: the truth was out there, in the night, and I was running out of time to find it.
