The Information Between Us

The goldfish drifts through its tank, oblivious to the man sleeping beside me. I watch his chest rise and fall, the familiar rhythm that once anchored me. Now it feels like performance art.

His iphone lights up on the nightstand—2:47 AM. I shouldn't look. We promised each other that particular brand of honesty, the kind that feels good in conversation but curdles in practice. But my hand moves before my ethics can catch up.

The messages are encrypted. Of course they are. He's careful in ways I've only recently learned to notice.

Outside, beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of our thirty-second floor apartment, the baseball stadium sleeps. Our first date was there—bleacher seats, mediocre beer, him explaining the nuances of a curveball as if the sport itself were a metaphor for something larger and more meaningful. I'd rested my head on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his palm against my knee, thinking: this is it. This is the shape of my future.

Now I know better. The curveball was always coming.

The messages reference "the asset" and "extraction timeline" and something about my division's upcoming product launch. My company spent three years developing that encryption protocol. I spent six months convincing the board to approve it.

He spent six months convincing me he wasn't still working for them.

The goldfish surfaces, breaks water with a soundless gasp. I used to think fish had three-second memories—a convenient myth. The truth is they remember just fine. They simply lack the capacity for betrayal.

I slide the iphone back onto the nightstand, careful not to disturb the illusion of sleep. His breathing changes, shifts toward wakefulness, and I close my eyes, feigning the unconsciousness of someone who doesn't know she's being played.

His arm drapes across me, heavy and warm. The palm that once felt like home now feels like evidence. I should have known—you can't be a spy without learning to love the performance more than the reality.

Tomorrow I'll contact corporate security. Tomorrow I'll pack my things. Tonight, I let myself pretend that the curveball is still coming, that there's still time to swing, that I haven't already struck out.

The goldfish watches from its tank, holding everything it knows in a silence I'm finally learning to read.