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Doubts

Dita sighed. Once. Then again. And again. Each breath longer, heavier, as if she were trying to exhale the weight of months spent. She hadn't seen her husband in weeks. Months, really, if she was being honest with herself.

He always had explanations. He was a doctor, after all. An anesthesiologist. Long shifts. Overnight duties. Emergencies. Exhaustion.

"This is just how it is," Ilya would say, loosening his tie with one hand, brushing her cheek with the other. "It's normal."

At first, she believed him. Doctors didn't keep ordinary hours. She'd married him with that knowledge tucked under her ribcage like a fragile secret she'd promised never to resent. But lately, normal had begun to feel suspiciously like convenient. Especially after she met his colleagues.

She hadn't meant to be the jealous type. It wasn't her nature to hover or snoop or imagine things that weren't there. But meeting them - well, that had shaken something in her.

Nita, with her wild beauty, the kind that didn't need fixing or taming. And Olimpiya... There was something about her smile that made Dita feel strange. And her ass was way bigger than hers.

Ilya always said they were just colleagues. But then he wouldn't come home. Or he'd come home and collapse into bed like a man who'd run from a war.

And what was she supposed to think? What was any woman supposed to think, when her husband was more familiar with hospital walls than her eyes, and when the women who did see him daily looked like they belonged in someone else's fantasies?

Dita wrapped her arms around herself and sat in the silence, her thoughts flickering like a faulty lightbulb. She didn't have proof. But she had doubt. And sometimes, that was worse. Because doubt could twist the shape of a marriage in ways even truth never could.