His Creative Partnership With Talia Became a Secret Emotional Affair

It was already dark by the time I finally buzzed up to Arnazlof.

The elevator clattered its way to the third floor, the familiar, metallic script giving me exactly those 15 seconds to arrange my best apologetic smile.

A text had held up, coming up now, and hesitated in the doorway, clutching the bottle of wine I'd picked up from the corner store.

I was late again, but I had a good excuse.

I always did.

Theo, my husband, had bailed at the last minute.

Sorry babe, client stuff running late, is text read.

I tried calling, but he didn't pick up, presumably still buried in that mountain of mockups or revisions or whatever emergency had materialized at the studio.

The other Zana, her boyfriend Michael, Jen, Lucas, and Mai were already clustered around the battered wooden table, the air thick with the easy laughter and inside jokes that came after years of these gatherings.

I caught myself pausing before crossing the threshold, easing deeper into my role, the girlfriend, the wife, someone who still showed up.

On a petite, bleach-blonde bob always perfectly must, arms inked with blackwood flowers and geometric bands met my eye.

She gave me her trademark get-over-here smirk, a mole high on her right cheek shading the look with its mischievous tilt.

Fashionably late jewels, she called foist her eye as always.

Around her, the kitchen gleam made her tangerine-eyeshadow pop, playing against her faded misfits' tea.

It struck me, weirdly, how she never seemed hurried, her stillness a gentle dare.

Where is Theo? Michael asked, raising a pierced brow.

Loose curls framed his face, always a little unchaven, the sleeves of his oversized black hoodie shoved to his elbows.

I grinned as convincingly as I could.

Pulled into client hell again, I said, sitting down on the wine, taking the glass unhanded over without asking.

Sen's his love, and I'm supposed to remind you all that he'll bring pastries from that bakery on Columbia next Friday, or so help him.

There was a general chorus of fake groans and eye rolls.

Jen, sprawled beside the window-long, wavy copper hair covering one half of her freckled face, chunky silver rings on every finger whistled.

Dude always misses the best cards against humanity rounds.

Does this guy hate fun? I laughed a little louder than I felt.

It's not personal, you know what freelance is like.

Anyway, at least we can actually get through a round with that graphic design jokester railing the entire game.

Maya nudged me, a mischievous side grin on her round, dimpled face.

She'd gone full neon tonight, streaks of electric blue running through her thick black curls, a paint fleck jumps half unzipped to the waist.

He said pastries, he's forgiven for all transgressions present and future, as long as he brings at least six.

We fell into our usual, pulling out war and game boxes and shooing Lucas away from the Bluetooth speakers.

The room hummed, a kind of comfortable chaos that used to run until 3am, back when we all lived in slightly grungier places and bought cheap whiskey by the handle.

I made myself relax into it, until midway through the second game, when conversation took a strange, oblique turn.

Someone Lucas, maybe muttered over his hand of cards, guess everyone's working late with clients these days, studio romances, am I right? Jen snorted, lips twisting, and Mai rolled her eyes.

Some people just like the after-hours energy, I guess, she said, her tone arched.

The conversation moved on quick, nearly seamless, but an odd tension hung in the air.

No one said any names, and nobody looked at me directly, but suddenly I felt as though I'd stepped behind a plate glass window.

I busied myself topping off glasses, fixing a bowl of popcorn, smiling.

Trying to appear unbothered.

But I watched them watching each other at the flicker of glances.

Were they talking about you? About someone else? I thought of the late nights he'd been racking up, always more client revisions, always the same heroic excuse.

Was it just the stress of his new big branding account, the name of which he'd never told me? I asked, but it always seemed to slip his mind.

I wiped butter from my hands onto my jeans, feeling strangely apart from the group I'd always loved.

Anna noticed, her look softer.

She mouthed you good, and I nodded way too quickly, feeling a stone-settle dent in my chest.

After midnight, I said my goodbyes, grateful for the weight of my jacket and scarf as I slipped into the Uber.

The backseat was cold.

The city blurred outside the window as I scrawled, pointless, through old texts with the of funny selfies, gifts, scribbled illustrations drawn on napkins with the Apple Pencil he taught me into buying last year.

Back then, our game nights weren't just routine, they were the anchor that tethered us together against the churning of maybe next month of freelance living.

I thought our friends envied us, our shared vision, our collaborative life.

But what I kept circling back to, as the driver sped down Leighton Pass to shut it all theatre, was how quickly a single phrase studio romances could redraw the boundaries between trust and suspicion.

I closed my eyes and pressed my head to the glass, knowing tomorrow would be Saturday, knowing I'd wake up next to Theo and try to make sense of what, if anything, had actually shifted.

It was already dark by the time I finally buzzed up to Arnazlof.

The elevator clattered its way to the third floor, the familiar, metallic script giving me exactly those 15 seconds to arrange my best apologetic smile.

A text had held up, coming up now, and hesitated in the doorway, clutching the bottle of wine I'd picked up from the corner store.

I was late again, but I had a good excuse.

I always did.

Theo, my husband, had bailed at the last minute.

Sorry babe, client stuff running late, is text read.

I tried calling, but he didn't pick up, presumably still buried in that mountain of mockups or revisions or whatever emergency had materialized at the studio.

The other Zana, her boyfriend Michael, Jen, Lucas, and Mai were already clustered around the battered wooden table, the air thick with the easy laughter and inside jokes that came after years of these gatherings.

I caught myself pausing before crossing the threshold, easing deeper into my role, the girlfriend, the wife, someone who still showed up.

On a petite, bleach-blonde bob always perfectly must, arms inked with blackwood flowers and geometric bands met my eye.

She gave me her trademark get-over-here smirk, a mole high on her right cheek shading the look with its mischievous tilt.

Fashionably late jewels, she called foist her eye as always.

Around her, the kitchen gleam made her tangerine-eyeshadow pop, playing against her faded misfits' tea.

It struck me, weirdly, how she never seemed hurried, her stillness a gentle dare.

Where is Theo? Michael asked, raising a pierced brow.

Loose curls framed his face, always a little unchaven, the sleeves of his oversized black hoodie shoved to his elbows.

I grinned as convincingly as I could.

Pulled into client hell again, I said, sitting down on the wine, taking the glass unhanded over without asking.

Sen's his love, and I'm supposed to remind you all that he'll bring pastries from that bakery on Columbia next Friday, or so help him.

There was a general chorus of fake groans and eye rolls.

Jen, sprawled beside the window-long, wavy copper hair covering one half of her freckled face, chunky silver rings on every finger whistled.

Dude always misses the best cards against humanity rounds.

Does this guy hate fun? I laughed a little louder than I felt.

It's not personal, you know what freelance is like.

Anyway, at least we can actually get through a round with that graphic design jokester railing the entire game.

Maya nudged me, a mischievous side grin on her round, dimpled face.

She'd gone full neon tonight, streaks of electric blue running through her thick black curls, a paint fleck jumps half unzipped to the waist.

He said pastries, he's forgiven for all transgressions present and future, as long as he brings at least six.

We fell into our usual, pulling out war and game boxes and shooing Lucas away from the Bluetooth speakers.

The room hummed, a kind of comfortable chaos that used to run until 3am, back when we all lived in slightly grungier places and bought cheap whiskey by the handle.

I made myself relax into it, until midway through the second game, when conversation took a strange, oblique turn.

Someone Lucas, maybe muttered over his hand of cards, guess everyone's working late with clients these days, studio romances, am I right? Jen snorted, lips twisting, and Mai rolled her eyes.

Some people just like the after-hours energy, I guess, she said, her tone arched.

The conversation moved on quick, nearly seamless, but an odd tension hung in the air.

No one said any names, and nobody looked at me directly, but suddenly I felt as though I'd stepped behind a plate glass window.

I busied myself topping off glasses, fixing a bowl of popcorn, smiling.

Trying to appear unbothered.

But I watched them watching each other at the flicker of glances.

Were they talking about you? About someone else? I thought of the late nights he'd been racking up, always more client revisions, always the same heroic excuse.

Was it just the stress of his new big branding account, the name of which he'd never told me? I asked, but it always seemed to slip his mind.

I wiped butter from my hands onto my jeans, feeling strangely apart from the group I'd always loved.

Anna noticed, her look softer.

She mouthed you good, and I nodded way too quickly, feeling a stone-settle dent in my chest.

After midnight, I said my goodbyes, grateful for the weight of my jacket and scarf as I slipped into the Uber.

The backseat was cold.

The city blurred outside the window as I scrawled, pointless, through old texts with the of funny selfies, gifts, scribbled illustrations drawn on napkins with the Apple Pencil he taught me into buying last year.

Back then, our game nights weren't just routine, they were the anchor that tethered us together against the churning of maybe next month of freelance living.

I thought our friends envied us, our shared vision, our collaborative life.

But what I kept circling back to, as the driver sped down Leighton Pass to shut it all theatre, was how quickly a single phrase studio romances could redraw the boundaries between trust and suspicion.

I closed my eyes and pressed my head to the glass, knowing tomorrow would be Saturday, knowing I'd wake up next to Theo and try to make sense of what, if anything, had actually shifted.