Elias’s throat tightened. He looked over his shoulder. The bedroom door was closed. His wife’s breathing was soft and even.
He tried again: "My next meeting."
But every night, just before sleep, his monitor flickers once. And in that instant, just below the taskbar, he sees it: a rounded rectangle of dark glass. Empty. Waiting. rainmeter search bar skin
The response came not as text, but as a slow ripple across the glass bar, like a stone dropped into oil. Elias’s throat tightened
"I am the part of you that watches. The browser history you delete at 2 AM. The search you type but never press Enter on. The question you're too afraid to ask your wife." just before sleep