THE WOMAN BESIDE ME
My name is Michael Harris.
I am thirty-one years old.
I have been married to Emily Harris for exactly one year.
People often say that the first year of marriage is the hardest. I used to laugh when I heard that. One year didn’t sound like much. But now, looking back, that single year felt longer than the decade before it. There were nights when I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling as though time had slowed down just to test my patience.
I am seven years older than Emily. When we got married, she was twenty-four—young, emotional, impulsive, still half-attached to the life she had before marriage. I told myself that age was just a number, that love could bridge any gap if both people tried hard enough.
I tried.
I had a stable job at a small construction company in Ohio. It wasn’t glamorous work. I didn’t wear suits or sit in glass offices, but it paid the bills. About $4,200 a month after taxes—enough to cover rent, groceries, utilities, and still leave a little aside for savings. Emily worked part-time at a coffee shop downtown, earning around $1,200 a month. I never complained. I never asked her to work more. I wanted her to enjoy her youth, to feel supported.
What I didn’t expect was how quickly love could turn into exhaustion.
Emily was emotional in ways I didn’t know how to handle. When she was happy, the house felt warm, alive. But when she was upset, everything became a battlefield. Silence became punishment. Tears became weapons. And arguments—no matter how small—always ended the same way.
She would pack her clothes and go back to her mother’s house.
The first time it happened, I panicked.
I stood in our empty bedroom, staring at the open closet, her hangers swinging slightly as if mocking me. I didn’t even know what the argument had really been about. Something small. Something stupid. But suddenly, she was gone.
I called her. No answer.
I texted her. No reply.
That same night, I got into my car and drove over thirty miles to my mother-in-law’s house. I stood outside in the cold, calling Emily’s phone again and again. After nearly half an hour, she finally came out, eyes red, face streaked with tears.
She said she felt lonely.
She said I didn’t understand her.
She said marriage wasn’t what she had imagined.
I apologized.
I promised I would change.
The second time, I was calmer.
The third time, I was tired.
By the fifth time, I felt something inside me start to crack.
The arguments were always about trivial things.
Because I came home late from work.
Because I forgot to buy milk.
Because I didn’t “react” fast enough to her messages.
Because I didn’t like her photo on social media.
Because I didn’t remember that it was “the six-month anniversary of the day we bought the sofa.”
I started to feel like I was walking through a minefield—one wrong step, one missed signal, and everything would explode.
Three days ago, it happened again.
Emily was standing in the kitchen, her back turned to me, hands trembling as she wiped the counter again and again.
“You’re always like this!” she suddenly screamed, throwing the dishcloth onto the floor. “I talk, but you never listen!”
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
I was too tired to argue. Too tired to defend myself. Too tired to explain things I had already explained a hundred times.
So I said the one sentence I never thought I would say.
“If you want to leave, then leave.”
Emily froze.
She turned slowly, staring at me as if I had slapped her.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then she went into the bedroom, dragged out her suitcase, and started throwing clothes into it.
Ten minutes later, she walked out the door.
This time, I didn’t chase after her.
That night, I called a few old friends. Men I hadn’t seen much since getting married. We went to a familiar bar, one we used to frequent years ago. The neon lights felt harsh. The music was loud. The laughter around us felt distant.
I drank more than I should have.
Beer.
Whiskey.
Another whiskey.
I lost count.
All I remember was the burning bitterness sliding down my throat, mixing with the heavy exhaustion that had been building up inside me for an entire year.
Near midnight, the world started to blur. My friends exchanged looks and quietly called a taxi for me. I don’t remember getting into the car. I only remember the sudden jolt when it stopped in front of my house.
As soon as I stepped out, nausea hit me like a wave.
I sat down on the sidewalk near the gate, my head spinning, stomach churning. Cold air pressed against my face. I don’t know how long I stayed there.
Minutes?
An hour?
Time meant nothing.
Then I heard someone calling my name.
“Michael!”
That voice sounded familiar. Comforting.
I lifted my head, eyes barely open, and saw a figure running toward me from the alley. Someone grabbed my arm, steadying me. I caught the faint scent of perfume—soft, floral, familiar.
In my drunken haze, only one thought formed in my mind:
Emily is back.
I smiled stupidly. I remember mumbling apologies—broken sentences, words slurring together. I remember being helped into the house, feeling the mattress beneath me, then sinking into darkness.
Sunlight woke me.
Sharp, unforgiving light cutting straight into my eyes.
My head felt like it was being split open. My mouth was dry, my tongue heavy. I tried to turn over—
And my hand touched bare skin.
I froze.
My heart started pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. Slowly, painfully slowly, I turned my head.
And my entire body went cold.
The woman lying next to me was not Emily.
It was Jessica Miller.
My neighbor.
Single. Quiet. Always polite. Living less than twenty meters from my house.
Panic exploded inside me. I jumped up too fast, my legs tangled, and I fell off the bed, hitting my elbow hard against the floor. The pain didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the terror clawing at my chest.
Jessica stirred, then opened her eyes.
She looked at me calmly.
She even smiled.
“You’re awake,” she said.
I looked down at myself, trembling.
I wasn’t wearing anything.
The room felt suffocating. My voice shook as I asked:
“What… what happened last night?”
Jessica sat up, resting on one elbow. She showed no sign of embarrassment. No panic. No guilt.
“Don’t you remember?” she asked softly. “You should try to remember.”
My stomach turned.
“No… I was too drunk. I don’t remember anything.”
She studied my face carefully.
“I’ve noticed you for a long time, Michael.”
Her words sent a chill down my spine.
“You’re a good man,” she continued. “And your wife…” She paused, then shrugged. “She doesn’t appreciate you.”
I stepped back, my mind screaming that something was terribly wrong.
“I’m married,” I said firmly.
Jessica smiled faintly.
“But she’s not here.”
“What do you want?” I asked, my voice rising.
Her smile disappeared.
“I want you to take responsibility.”
The room spun.
“I don’t remember anything,” I said desperately. “I don’t even know if anything happened.”
“You were drunk,” she said coldly. “But you agreed. If I tell people, who do you think your wife will believe?”
My legs felt weak.
For the first time, I realized I might lose everything—not because of something I had done, but because of something I couldn’t remember.
“Give me time,” I said hoarsely. “I need to think.”
She nodded slowly.
“Don’t make me wait too long.”
I spent the entire day sitting on the sofa, staring at nothing.
I didn’t call Emily.
I didn’t text her.
I didn’t even check social media.
I checked the security camera footage.
Nothing.
At the exact moment I needed proof, the system had malfunctioned.
I called a lawyer I knew. He listened silently, then said:
“If you don’t remember, do not admit to anything. Not to her. Not to your wife. Not to anyone.”
That afternoon, Emily called me.
“Are you okay?” she asked softly.
I couldn’t answer.
For the first time in my life, I realized how fragile everything was.
That evening, I knocked on Jessica’s door.
“We need to talk.”
She smiled and stepped aside.
This time, I wasn’t drunk.
I was fully awake.
And I knew one thing for sure—
If I didn’t face the truth, whatever it was, my life would be destroyed.
