Shared Everyting

Late afternoon light slanted across the windshield, turning the university parking lot into a wash of pale gold and dirty grey. Engines hummed in uneven bursts. Doors slammed. Groups of students drifted past in clusters of backpacks and laughter. Inside the sedan, the air felt stale, faintly perfumed with whatever artificial vanilla scent clung to the vents.

In her old life, before Evan fucked it all up, David would have taken the car to work. He had just told her a few weeks ago that he was planning on buying a second car just for her. But now there was no need. The car was already hers.

No... theirs.

A sigh slipped out before the correction fully formed. Fingers tightened on the steering wheel, then loosened. Registration had been checked. Twice. Glove compartment opened, papers unfolded, names confirmed in crisp government font: Evan Walker and Stacy Walker. Shared ownership. Shared address. Shared everything.

A shared life, apparently.

The phone screen lit up again beneath her thumb. No new notifications. The message she sent thirty-two minutes ago glared back in its bright blue bubble.

On my way. I'll pick you up.

Delivered. Read.

No response.

Where the fuck was he?

Students continued pouring from the doors of the humanities building across the lot. Laughter rose in gusts. Someone jogged past the hood, earbuds in, oblivious. Every lanky figure with a backpack made her pulse spike for a fraction of a second before settling back into dull irritation.

Then... there.

A familiar shape emerged from the shadowed doorway. Dark hoodie. Backpack slung over his shoulders. Head bent, hair falling into his eyes. Slow, dragging steps, like gravity weighed more heavily on him than it did on everyone else.

Evan.

Shuffling toward the car, their car, as though the act required negotiation.

Earlier that afternoon, coffee with Debbie had dissolved into something sour and bewildering. Concern disguised as giggling curiosity. Memories that didn't belong to her were described with confidence. A version of events told with such certainty it made her feel unstable.

Home had offered no relief.

Upstairs, in the bedroom, their bedroom, a large black binder sat on the shelf Debbie had mentioned. Matte cover. Clean white label.

The Encyclopedia of Evan.

Even the title felt absurd.

Fingers had hovered before lifting it down. Weight surprised her. Not a thin scrapbook. Not a sentimental collection of photos. Dense. Organised. Tabbed.

Opening it had felt like prying into a stranger's private research.

Colour-coded sections. Printed articles. Handwritten notes in looping, careful script. Her script. Pages detailing favourite foods, preferred brands, clothing sizes, social media screenshots, class schedules, long-term goals. Entire spreads devoted to personality analysis. Strengths. Weaknesses. Motivators. Triggers.

Recipes highlighted because he'd once mentioned liking them.

Gift ideas categorised by budget.

Annotated transcripts of conversations.

And it didn't stop after the wedding date. Entries continued. Adjustments. Observations. Improvements. A manual on how to win him. How to keep him. How to optimise life around him.

Reading it had felt like finding a cheat sheet. Not just on how to secure his affection, but on how to be the perfect wife.

As if she were even remotely interested in that.

Exhaustion had rolled in without warning. Not the ordinary fatigue of a poor night's sleep, but something heavier. Bone-deep. Oppressive. Head had dipped forward over the open binder once. Then again.

Both times, a sharp internal pinch had snapped her awake, like a rubber band against the inside of her skull. Each jolt accompanied by the same intrusive image: Evan's face, close, smiling, expectant.

Devoted.

The sensation left her nauseated.

Enough.

The school schedule tab had been flipped to with trembling fingers. Tuesdays: final class ending at 4:10 p.m. Building code circled in pink highlighter. Parking notes scribbled in the margin.

Phone in hand. Quick text.

I’m picking you up.

No discussion. No invitation.

And now, back in the present, he approached the passenger side with the same unhurried gait, as though she hadn't been sitting there waiting for half an hour.

God.

What a loser.

Backpack thumped lightly against his hip. Shoulders slouched. No urgency. No awareness. No sense that someone's entire life had detonated around him.

Hatred should have come easily. Instead, something else coiled underneath the anger, unwelcome and humiliating.

Need.

Not a sexual need, nor even an emotional need. But Stacy couldn't deny that as he got closer to her, her excitement grew. She had a purely physical need for Evan. He would bring her relief. He would let her sleep.

The passenger door opened. Cool air rushed in with him.

A grunt served as greeting. Backpack dropped between his feet. Door shut.

"Hey."

The word lacked warmth. Eyes stayed forward.

"Thanks for the pickup."

Monotone. Automatic. As though she were a rideshare service, not...

Not whatever this new relationship was supposed to be.

Dark circles smudged beneath his eyes. Skin pale. Shoulders tense. Exhaustion clung to him too. A brief moment of empathy snuck its way through past Stacy's anger, causing her to wonder if he felt as badly as she did.

"Shut up, Evan."

The engine turned over with a sharp twist of the key.

"Let's go home. I need a nap."