The Insecurity Diary Chapter 1

I was married for six years, and my stoic, predictable husband suddenly became very, very strange.

He started spending an hour getting dressed, two hours at the gym, and three hours in the middle of the workday "coincidentally" bringing me lunch, glaring at any man under 30 who walked past my desk.

I had no idea what was wrong with him, until I found his diary.

"She didn't wear her wedding ring to work today. Was it an oversight, or is this the beginning of the end? I can't think straight. I'm too scared to ask. I'm going insane..."

"She liked that intern's post on Instagram. Is she trying to kill me? It's his fault. That pretty-boy asshole, posting his stupid gym selfies..."

"The man in the mirror is aging. He's decaying. He's getting ugly. No. I have to perfect this vessel. It's the only way she won't leave me."

"I'm so helpless. I'm five years older than her. I'm not young anymore. My looks will fade, and when they do, her love will, too. This is how it ends..."

* * *

My marriage to Arthur was, by all accounts, perfect.

He was handsome, successful, and treated me with a gentle, respectful courtesy. A model husband.

But only I knew how suffocating that perfection was.

During my lunch break, my colleague, Sarah, was leaning against the counter in the breakroom, complaining.

"I got home at 8 PM," she vented, "and he was just... pouting. I had to spend an hour apologizing before he’d even talk to me. And now I’m banned from wearing skirts above the knee. Can you believe the nerve?"

She turned to me, a sly grin on her face. "Eliza, you're lucky. Arthur is so buttoned-up in the boardroom. I bet he's an absolute control freak in private, right? Super possessive?"

I just smiled and sipped my tea.

The truth, and the bitter irony, was the exact opposite.

In six years, Arthur had never been possessive. He was a robot, programmed for politeness. He never asked who I was with, never cared what time I came home, and would probably sooner die than touch my phone.

My colleagues always said love requires a little jealousy. That a lack of possession means a lack of love.

So, did Arthur... not love me? Was I the only one who had actually fallen?

My fingers tightened around the warm mug.

It was the chamomile tea Arthur had made for me that morning before he left. He’d silently placed it in my tote bag, then disappeared into the walk-in closet.

Lately, he’d been obsessed with his appearance. He was even wearing cologne, a scent he used to hate.

A dark, unwelcome thought crept into my mind.

On impulse, I opened the security app for our apartment.

The living room camera was active. And there was Arthur, on the yoga mat, directly in front of the camera.

He was shirtless. His throat worked as he counted reps.

The sunlight from the penthouse window hit the sweat on his abs, highlighting every defined muscle. His low-rise joggers were slung dangerously low on his hips, shifting with every crunch.

It felt... staged. Like a dangerous, private invitation.

My throat went tight. My finger hovered over the "zoom" icon.

The screen abruptly went black, replaced by my boss's face. A video call.

The spell shattered. I slammed my laptop shut, my heart hammering.