There was no affair. That was what made it so hard to name. He hadn't lied or left — he'd simply handed the small spaces of his life, the in-between moments, to someone who wasn't her. And she couldn't decide if she was allowed to be hurt by that.
Three cards came: the Moon, the Six of Pentacles, the Eight of Cups.
The Moon — the thing without a name
The Moon sat first, and it fit: the ache she couldn't justify, the suspicion with no proof, the fog of "maybe I'm imagining it." The Moon doesn't lie about facts; it tells you something is real even when you can't point to it.
Six of Pentacles, then Eight of Cups
The Six of Pentacles — giving and receiving, who pours into whom — showed where his attention actually flowed: the texts, the easy jokes, the daily warmth, all going elsewhere. Then the Eight of Cups: her own quiet leaving, already beginning.
What she'd really lost
Not a title. Not loyalty in the technical sense. She'd lost being the person his ordinary moments belonged to. The cards let her stop arguing about whether it "counted" and admit the simpler truth: she missed being chosen in the small hours, and that was reason enough.