Chapter 1: The Story That Broke Us

One year ago, I told my wife a story—just to see what would happen.

It was one of those nights where the world outside our window went quiet, but inside, the air buzzed with a restless energy neither of us could shake. Maybe that's why I decided to stir things up—a story so wild and detailed it almost felt true. But the strangest part was how Natalie listened: frozen, knuckles white around her mug, eyes flickering between me and the shadows on the wall, as if she wasn't sure who I was anymore.

The story was nuts, but I’d made it so real she couldn’t shake it. She looked at me like I’d turned into someone else.

Watching her shrink away from me, I felt a cold pit open in my stomach. I wanted to reach out, but my hands just hovered, useless. How could words—just words—do this much damage? I never meant for things to go that far. I tripped over myself apologizing, my voice cracking: "It's just fiction, Nat, I swear!" I must have said it a hundred times. But every time our eyes met, I saw something had cracked—a thin, splintering line of fear where trust used to be.

After that, I kept trying to reassure her. Again and again, I promised it was only a story. But her trust was already shattered—every time she looked at me, her eyes were full of fear.

That night, once the house had settled into an uneasy quiet, Natalie locked herself in the bathroom. I can still hear her voice through that door—strained, barely above a whisper, but dead serious. She called the police. Maybe she thought she was overreacting. Maybe, deep down, she knew she wasn’t.

Their radios crackled, boots heavy on the hardwood. Natalie peeked through the bathroom door, her face pale as the tile. The officers arrived with this grave, clipped professionalism that told me this wasn’t just another noise complaint. I tried to explain, but they barely looked up, scribbling in their notepads. Cold steel cuffs snapped around my wrists—harder and more final than anything I’d ever written—and I was marched out into the harsh light of the porch, red and blue lights painting the neighbors’ windows. I saw faces peeking out from behind curtains, curiosity and judgment blending in the dark.

The cuffs bit into my wrists, cold and tight. My mind spun with what-ifs as they led me past the gawking neighbors. Jail was a blur of echoing footsteps and fluorescent lights.

Now, sitting in this concrete cell with the hum of fluorescent bulbs buzzing overhead, I’m going to write down everything. Maybe if I get it all out—piece by piece—someone will finally understand.