Watching His House
With no relief from worry, I took to driving past his house, hoping to spot Sarah. Each slow drive felt like a gamble.
Maybe I’d see her smile or catch her leaving the house. Instead, I often found myself parked at the corner, gripping the steering wheel, staring at their door—the normalcy of the scene unnerving.
“Please, God,” I’d whisper to the quiet car, praying for just one glimpse to ease the gnawing fear.