Storm Season

The surveillance footage glowed on Marcus's monitor at 2 AM — Elena, walking past their bedroom door at 11:47 PM, then again at 3:22 AM, each time checking her phone like it held answers she couldn't find. Three weeks of this pattern, captured through the motion-activated camera he'd installed after she started coming to bed in her running clothes, claiming insomnia. He'd become exactly what he'd sworn he wouldn't: someone who needed to know.

'You're still doing it,' she said from the doorway. Marcus jumped. Behind her, lightning fractured the night sky, illuminating the woman he'd loved for seven years standing in her running gear, phone clutched in hand.

'I'm worried about you, El. You're not sleeping. You're running at all hours.' He swiveled his chair. 'Are you seeing someone?'

Her laugh was dry, drained of humor. 'That's what you think? That I'm cheating?' She stepped closer. 'I applied for that transfer, Marcus. The London office. I got it three weeks ago.' The storm outside broke, thunder rattling the windowpane. 'I've been trying to find the courage to tell you. But you — you installed cameras? You're spying on me now?'

'This isn't spying, it's — '

'It's exactly that.' Her voice cracked. 'Jesus, Marcus. We used to talk. Remember? Before we started monitoring each other's location data, tracking screen time, treating our marriage like a risk assessment?' She backed toward the door. 'I accepted the position. I leave in two weeks. I was hoping you'd come with me.' Lightning flashed again, revealing her tears. 'Now I don't know what I'm hoping.'

Later, he would delete the footage. Later, he would pack or stay or something. Now, he watched her run into the storm — not toward him, not away from him, just forward, into whatever came next, while he sat in the glow of all the ways he'd learned to watch instead of see.