Hello again!
I wrote this in response to a challenge made by my friend. The idea was to write about someone who believed something was true, but the reality was quite opposite.

DISCLAIMER: NO.

She loves me.

I know she does.

I mean, she's not always home at night, but she's a researcher-they have to be at work a lot. To, you know, study. And research things. She's researching a new cancer drug, so she has to spend lots of extra hours at work instead of at home. Which doesn't make me happy, but I can deal. Because I love her.

She really does love me. She always gives me a kiss before she goes to sleep. No sex, of course. W e haven't had that in a while, not since Sam was born. But a single kiss, very soft and sweet. Like a butterfly flying up against your cheek.

And she always makes sure she makes coffee and breakfast for me in the morning. Granted, with her new job she hasn't done it in the past few days. But when she does, she's always smiling and the food is always great. So she totally loves me.

And I love her. I love the way her hair is always in her face, no matter what she does to keep it back. I love her laugh, loud and infectious. She hasn't laughed in a few days, but that's because she's had a cold. She loves me.

It's our two year anniversary next week-so she's getting me a really nice pair of cufflinks. I was in her room last week, and they were sitting up there on the dresser. They were so pretty. And yes, we don't share a room any more, but that's because she says I snore. Which I do not, by the way, but I love her, so I agreed to be separated.

So yeah, I love her.

And she loves me.

And we love each other.

There's her key in the lock. Soon she'll come in, kiss me where I'm sitting in front of the television, then go in to make dinner for me. For us.

Wait.

There's someone else with her. I wonder if Lizzie is coming over for dinner? She usually tells me these things.

No. It's a man. I've never met him. He looks nice- maybe it's one of her coworkers that couldn't get home on time and we're having him over for dinner.

And she's taking off—wait. That's her wedding ring, why is she putting it on the floor? And why is she staring at me like that?

She's talking. "I'm sorry, Derek. Goodbye…"

What?

This isn't possible.

She loves me.

Not him. It can't be him.

She loves me. Me.

Shelovesmeshelovesmeshelovesmeshelovesme----

Click.

Please review and tell me what you think.

-Rhapsody