The Sweat on Your Screen

The iPhone buzzed on mahogany — Marcus's phone, left unattended during his bathroom break. Elena shouldn't have looked. She'd sat across from him for three years, shared coffees, complained about their boss, celebrated his promotion last month. They were friends.

But her palm hovered over the device anyway, sweat beading on her skin. The notification preview showed a text from HR: "Meeting regarding the Patel project discrepancy. Bring documentation."

Elena knew the Patel project. She'd led it. Marcus had "assisted."

Her other palm pressed against her mouth. The realization hit like cold water — Marcus had been collecting evidence, documenting her supposed mistakes. While she'd trusted him, he'd been building a case.

The bathroom door clicked. Marcus returned, his smile easy, warm. "Everything good?"

Elena's phone vibrated in her pocket. A different kind of notification.

"Fine," she said, her voice steady. "Just thinking about the quarterly review."

"We should prep together," he suggested, reaching for his iPhone. His palm brushed hers on the table — the same hand that had likely forwarded her emails to HR, the same fingers that had typed careful notes about her "performance issues."

"Actually," Elena stood, gathering her things. "I think I'll handle this one alone."

Marcus's expression flickered — confusion, then something like understanding. His palm remained on the phone, dark hair curling on his knuckles.

"Elena, wait."

She didn't.

That evening, she sat on her balcony, iPhone in hand, scrolling through blocked contacts. The city lights blurred below. She'd lost projects before. She'd lost jobs. But this — this quiet betrayal by someone she'd actually liked — this was harder.

Her palm found the glass of wine she'd poured. The condensation was cold against her skin, grounding.

Some friendships, she decided, were just workplace transactions that hadn't been properly invoiced yet.