Eight Months Of Hidden Lies

The phone screen cast a cool wash over Janice’s kitchen as she stood barefoot on the tile, one hand braced against the counter while the other thumbed her messages to Boris. The clock above the microwave blinked 12:17, then steadied. Outside, the night pressed against the window like damp cloth; inside, her refrigerator hummed with a steady, irritated steadiness, and the sink faucet dripped once every few minutes as if the house itself couldn’t sleep.

Boris’s last message was still warm at the top of the chat thread - blue text, then Boris’s timestamp - while Janice tried to keep her voice even in her head. Albert had been restless all week, the kind of restless that turned small questions into interrogations. Tonight he’d kissed her at the doorway with too much force, asked where she’d been “really,” and then disappeared into his office with his phone held low like a secret. Janice had told herself it was nothing, the usual spiral of suspicion, but her chest tightened anyway when the notification sound chirped again.

Boris: You’re awake.

Janice stared at the words until they blurred. She didn’t type right away. She wiped her palms on her pajama pants, feeling the faint grit of flour from earlier - she’d made a quick batch of cookies, the kind that made her feel domestic and normal, even when her thoughts weren’t. She could hear Albert’s laptop fan down the hall, a soft electronic roar. She could also hear the way her own life kept shrinking to the space between her and her phone.

Boris: Don’t answer yet. Just read.

That was new. Not the flirt, not the careful affection he usually wrapped around his sentences like an extra layer of clothing. This felt like instructions from someone who knew the room she was in, who knew where she was standing and what she’d do next.

Janice’s fingers hovered. She glanced toward the hallway, where her bedroom door sat half open. The dark behind it looked thicker than it should have. She told herself she was imagining things - she told herself a lot lately - but her body didn’t believe it.

Albert’s text came through without warning, the screen lighting up her counter with a hard white glare.

Albert: Who are you talking to?

Her stomach dropped. She hadn’t mentioned Boris to Albert tonight. She’d tried not to. She’d been careful in that way she always convinced herself was enough: not saying names, not letting her attention slip, not letting her phone face up on the couch where he could see the glow. She turned the phone slightly away from the hallway, as if angle alone could protect her.

Janice typed back to Boris anyway, because the thread was already open and her hands moved faster than her fear.

Janice: I’m here. What is it?

Boris replied almost immediately, like he’d been waiting with his thumb hovering over the send button.

Boris: 12:20. Look at your email. Not here.

Janice frowned. She hadn’t checked email in hours. She kept her chat window open and pulled her phone closer, the glass cool against her skin. She unlocked it, swiped to her email app, and held her breath in a way she hated - silent, childish, like breath could keep consequences from happening.

There was one new message, timestamped 12:20 a.m.

Subject line: Re: You asked.

From: an address she didn’t recognize.

Her thumb trembled as she tapped it.

The email body loaded slowly, letters snapping into place like tiles falling into a mosaic. The first line made her skin prickle.

Email: Janice, don’t let Albert see the way you smile when you think you’re alone.

Her mouth went dry. She hadn’t told anyone about that. Not even Boris, not directly. She’d caught herself smiling at his messages - at the way he wrote with that controlled tenderness, like he was building a bridge plank by plank and waiting for her to step. She’d never said it out loud.

Janice scrolled down. The next line was worse, because it was specific.

Email: You keep your phone on the counter because it’s the only place it doesn’t vibrate against the cabinet.

She looked around her kitchen as if the cabinet might answer. The counter was exactly where it always was - habit, not strategy. Her phone lay there now, face up, glowing, as if it had been arranged for the message to make sense.

She tried to breathe, but her lungs felt too small. She backed out of the email and returned to the chat. Boris’s typing indicator flickered, disappeared, then flickered again.

Albert’s phone buzzed again in her pocket. Another text.

Albert: Say it. Who.

Janice stared at Albert’s name until the letters went fuzzy. Her mind raced through the last week: the way Albert had asked about her “online friends” in that sharp, joking tone that wasn’t joking at all. The way he’d accused Boris of being “a creep” without knowing anything specific....