Mother wisely warned against listening at doors. “You’ll deserve what you think you’ve heard,” she’d say.
Now there’s me, pinning hot ear upon wood, hearing faint yet distinct words: ‘love’, ‘heart’, ‘leave,’ ‘forever’.
If there’d been some window or peephole to peak through—into his room where she honestly stood beside him—context would have only revealed truth. But buoyed by hubris, using stray syllables as stepping stones, I made a treacherous crossing then descended and lost myself within mazes of invented betrayal, until finding my monster in the labyrinth’s dark centre.
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