The Shallows

by Holly Craig

The fact is, even after ten years, I don’t know my husband. But do we ever really know anyone?

But just like any perfect person who you admire from afar, you can’t invite them into your own house, otherwise they’ll notice the imperfections and the fragilities of your own life. We can’t have people comparing. It’s best to shut them out until you find a crack, a tiny fault in them that levels out the playing field.

even if we loved each other dearly, can you really ever know a person fully?

He’s the ‘should man’. The man society says I ‘should’ have; ‘should make happy’ and ‘shouldn’t’ divorce, no matter how unhappy I am.

I hate my life. The neighbours look in on it with vintage-filtered lenses, the ones on Instagram that subtly alter the pictures of acai bowls, a lazy Sunday moment of black coffee and the newspaper, a daisy in a blown-glass vase. Take the filter away and you’re left with a brightness so blinding that something as delicate as a daisy now seems disfigured, ugly, too colourful.

Karma’s a cruel bitch and I know I’m being stalked by her.