After he left that night, she just sat, staring at the painting on the wall without truly seeing it.

The house was quiet: they never put on any music. The TV was next to her, but she didn't turn it on. She didn't see the point of having a TV in the kitchen anyway.

She just sat, contemplating the thought of who she was. She was her. She was the other woman.

It was a funny thought. It felt unreal altogether. It probably meant it didn't matter after all.

She got up, slowly went to make the bed. Made a stop in front of the mirror hung in the corridor. Combed her hair with her fingers, resumed her walk towards the bedroom.

Her bedroom. Never his. They'd never discussed it, that's just how it worked. She wasn't even sure there was a reason. It certainly couldn't have been for morals sake, but maybe it was the need for self-justification.

Okay, so technically, she was the other woman, but only technically, because that's not how she felt.

Of course, she had no idea what being the other woman must feel like, but she figured it wasn't like this. She figured if she really were a sort of evil her, she could pick out at what point she had turned into that. She figured it wouldn't feel so easy, so natural; she figured it would at least feel like truth and lies battling.

But it didn't. It wasn't about truth or lies at all: it was simply about getting up in the morning and being alive.

After the pillows and the sheets were back into place, she gave the room an expert glance in order to see whether everything was in order.

Not because she was hiding, absolutely not. She didn't really have to hide anything. She just liked a clean and ordered bedroom. She had a clean and ordered life - right up until he rang her bell, one would've said, but no, really, even when he was around, her life wasn't upside down.

Everything was in order.

She walked back to the kitchen, poured some milk into a cup, added powder chocolate and put the cup into the microwave for a minute. She looked out the window, let the thought of him cross her mind for a second, then shook it away.

With her hot chocolat in her hands, she went into the living room, sat down on the couch, put the cup on the small table next to it and grabbed the book she was reading. She had to look for it for a minute, because somehow it had fallen on the floor - she didn't know when exactly, but she had a rough idea how.

Before she opened the book, she grabbed a remote and turned on the radio, so as to have a musical background.

So she was the other woman, but not really, she was just being alive, and she didn't have to think about it; eventually, he'd return, or not, and just as she didn't know when she had become this her, she didn't know when she'd turn into someone else.

But it was okay.

She took a sip of her hot chocolate.