Illicit Affairs

She slipped out just before dawn, hood pulled over her hair, her eyes fixed on the damp pavement as she hurried into the grey light. If anyone asked, she was off for a run—nothing more, nothing less. But her pulse raced for reasons that had nothing to do with exercise. She would return flushed, heart pounding not from miles but from stolen moments. The first rendezvous had felt like a thrill she could never describe, born in an opulent suite overlooking the city skyline. It was all hushed laughter, fingertips grazing champagne flutes, and whispers that left her dizzy. Yet such fragile magic—bright and dizzying—wasn’t meant for everyday life. Now, she found herself waiting in chilly car parks, scanning the corners for signs of watchful eyes, promising herself every time that she could stop if she really wanted to. The perfume he once complimented so sweetly remained untouched on her dresser. She dared not spritz a single drop, lest it be taken as proof of her existence in places she didn’t belong. Each meeting was an echo of a high she could no longer recapture, a memory of the spark that had lit up her world only to sputter out with each deceit. The faint scent on her coat, the notes he tucked into her bag, even the longing in his gaze—every one a reminder of something that wasn’t supposed to be real. In secret, she’d memorised the language they built together: half-smiles in crowded streets, coded words in texts that never named names. He was the only person who knew that side of her—vulnerable, reckless, dangerously alive. Yet here she was, consumed by a feeling she knew couldn’t last, but still clinging to the promise of those colours he once showed her. For his sake, she would ruin herself, as many times as it took, all in the name of an affair that was always destined to be whispered about and never proclaimed.