"Thank you, my love," I whispered, taking the glass with firm hands.
He watched me, that split second I had learned to fear. I swallowed and raised the glass to my lips… but I didn't drink.
"Is it very hot?" he asked softly.
"A little." “I’ll let it cool,” I replied.
Diego nodded, pleased. And went to brush his teeth as if nothing had happened.
As soon as I heard the water running in the sink, I got up, walked to the bathroom down the hall, and emptied the contents into the jar I had hidden. Then I poured some plain water with honey and chamomile—the kind I had prepared myself that afternoon—and left it in the same glass.
When Diego returned, I was already in bed."I already took it," I lied.
He smiled, satisfied, and lay down beside me.
I didn't sleep that night.
I watched him breathe. I listened to him. And for the first time in six years, I felt neither love nor tenderness.
I felt like I was next to a stranger.
The next morning, I did something I had never done in my life: I feigned fragility.
I ate breakfast slowly. I dropped my spoon. I got "confused" about the day of the week. I leaned against the wall as if the world were spinning around me.
Diego's face lit up, not with worry, but with confirmation.
