The secret had settled between us like dust after a storm — invisible, but impossible to ignore.Bruna had gone back to her parents' house a few days later, and life returned to its usual rhythm.On the surface, everything looked the same. My wife laughed, made plans, went about her days as if nothing had changed.But inside, I was carrying a weight that only I could feel.
A week later came her father's birthday.It was supposed to be a simple family gathering — good food, good music, laughter echoing through the house.But I knew Bruna would be there, and the thought alone made my stomach twist.
I arrived later than everyone else, already holding a drink to quiet my nerves.The house was full, voices overlapping, the smell of barbecue in the air. I smiled, greeted everyone, played my part — the good husband, the attentive son-in-law.But the moment I saw her across the room, all the noise seemed to fade.
She looked exactly the same — calm, radiant, untouchable.And yet, when our eyes met, something flickered between us — a silent acknowledgment of the night we both wanted to forget.
As the evening went on, people drifted into different rooms.Eventually, I found myself alone in the backyard, the music muffled behind the walls.Then I heard her voice.
"Hey."
She stood a few steps away, hesitant but composed.The silence between us stretched thin until I finally spoke.
"What was that night, Bruna? What did it mean?"
She looked down for a moment, then met my gaze.
"Relax," she said softly. "It was just a moment between us. If you want, it can stay that way — just in our heads. I haven't told anyone, and I never will."
Her tone was calm, almost too calm, as if she had already made peace with it.But I hadn't.
"It was wrong," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "It shouldn't have happened. But I can't stop thinking about it. I feel guilty… every day."
She sighed, taking a step closer, her expression soft.
"I understand you completely," she whispered.
For a second, I believed her — that she really did understand.But there was something in her eyes I couldn't read.
I hesitated, then asked the question that had been haunting me since that night.
"Would you do it again?"
There was a pause — long, heavy, suffocating.She looked away, pretending to think, but her silence was louder than any answer.
Finally, she said quietly,
"I'd rather not say."
It wasn't a no. And that made it worse.
As she turned to walk back toward the sound of laughter and clinking glasses, I stood there, frozen.I felt desired in a way I hadn't in years — and hated myself for it.
That night, I smiled through conversations, toasted to family, and played my role.But inside, my mind kept replaying her words, her silence, that look.
The secret was safe — but the guilt wasn't gone.It had simply learned how to live inside me.