Paranoid

My doubt mobbed me. Infidelity plagued my mind. I had a sudden outbreak of what if. What if my mouth sore was because of him? What if he was really cheating? What if?

I could no longer be vulnerable. I left the room. His protests were meaningless. He always tried to reassure me. But I knew they had their eyes on him. He was a prey they couldn’t allow to slip away. Charismatic. Talented. Handsome. Who wouldn’t fish for that? Not to mention, he wasn’t exactly known for providing clear rejection. He relished the attention. He bathed in it.

I feared being an idiot. I refused to give up my being for someone unworthy. I would not invest myself if he was cheating.

I felt something was amiss, but I lacked the evidence. I always stumbled upon a lead, yet it was a dead end.

I vigorously washed my mouth. I dreaded returning to the unwashed sheets. I don’t think he really wanted me; I had always initiated. It seemed peculiar that his desire was not so prominent.

When I opened the door, he was snoring. I stiffly bent into the bed. It was sweltering. The ceiling fan futility oscillated. Despite the heat, I cradled my stomach. A sharp pain migrated across my pelvis and stomach. It was akin to pregnancy contractions. When the pain subsided, I pulled up the comforter.

Sleep was recommended. At least in sleep, I didn’t have to think about the what-ifs.