Nothing freezes faster than trust

Nothing Freezes Faster Than Trust

Frozen to the bone, he walks briskly from the gym toward home. The falling snow tickles his collar and crackles beneath his shoes. David looks forward to curling up with Olivia by the fireplace, a good glass of wine within reach, wrapped in her sparkling enthusiasm. The thought alone warms him straight through the cutting wind.

He crosses the frozen pond and slips as he steps from the ice onto the snow-covered grass. “Fucking ice,” he mutters to himself. Just as he’s about to get up, he sees something black lying there, almost completely covered in snow. He pulls off a glove and picks it up. A smartphone, coated with a thin layer of ice. He slips the iPhone into his pocket and continues on his way. Hopefully it still works so he can return it to its owner.

As he walks up their garden path, he sees the house is dark. Maybe Olivia went to Noëlla tonight, he wonders.

Indeed—a simple Post-it on the fridge: “At Noëlla’s. See you tomorrow! xxx”

He had been looking forward to an evening by the fire together, but that hope has frozen solid. Olivia is away more and more often. “Off to Noëlla.”

He smirks crookedly. Is he actually catching himself in a flash of jealousy? The most overrated and misplaced emotion there is. It says nothing about the person you envy.

How could he begrudge Olivia her visits to Noëlla? The woman has endured incurable degenerative autoimmune diseases for decades. She is limited in what she can do and mostly confined to bed. He shouldn’t think like that.

The next morning Olivia comes home again. Visiting her friend was, as always, nice, she says. But even nice things drain her energy. So she rests in her room, two loudly purring cats beside her.

Later that afternoon, David sits in his study and tries to turn on the smartphone. There’s a small crack in the screen. Hopefully it wasn’t lying in the snow for too long. The screen lights up. Let’s see if it needs a password.

Luckily—not for him, but for the owner—no password. He can access the menu right away.

He scrolls through the contacts stored on the phone. Maybe a number for a father or mother. A spouse. A child. Someone he can inform that he found Maarten’s phone. That name appears under “own number.”

He unintentionally scrolls past what’s necessary—not out of curiosity, but out of idle scrolling. His heart freezes when he sees the name Olivia in the contact list. He controls himself—Olivia is a common name.

That control melts instantly when he taps it and sees the phone number.

It’s his Olivia’s number. Her number—a truth that hits like black ice. Saved in the phone of some Maarten, whose phone he just happened to find in the snow. She has never mentioned a Maarten. Not as family. Not as an old classmate. He knows all her friends.

He isn’t the impulsive type who storms into her room demanding answers. And technically, it doesn’t have to mean anything. Maarten could be her hairdresser or physiotherapist. He avoids looking at WhatsApp or other messages. A cold pressure spreads across his chest. What if he finds messages he doesn’t want to see?

He puts on his running clothes, calls through the doorway, “Going for a run, love, be right back!” and rushes out of the house—to investigate a reality that could make or break their relationship. He’s on his way to Maarten’s house. He got the address from Maarten’s mother.

One hour and fourteen kilometers later, he sits across from Maarten at the kitchen table. He sizes him up. About Olivia’s height—barely 1.70. Black wavy hair. Well built. Not overly muscular, but clearly athletic. He studies the man who has no idea what’s coming.

“I’m really glad you found my phone, man. It’s brand new. What can you even do these days without a smartphone? My whole life is on it.”

“I can relate,” David says curtly. He decides to be blunt. “What surprises me is that my girlfriend’s number is in your phone.”

Maarten frowns. “That seems unlikely. I’ve been in a committed relationship with Olivia for years. What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

David stares at him without blinking—pure cold calculation.

“Olivia,” he replies flatly. Her name shatters on the floor between them.

Half an hour later, he leaves. Maarten remains behind in frozen grief. He now knows Olivia was never truly his girlfriend. At best, his lover. Because she belongs to David. Still, he offered his hand out of politeness. David didn’t take it—just gave a curt nod.

His steps are controlled, though inside he boils with rage. What a hypocritical witch. Preaching honesty. Lying woven into her nature. “Off to Noëlla.”

Sometimes one night, often two or three. Always to Noëlla.

He once asked why Noëlla never visited them—why he had never met her. For a moment he had doubted. But Olivia’s explanation had always been consistent: “Noëlla is wary of people. She’s in a wheelchair, and our home isn’t accessible.” He had no reason then to question it.

His thoughts churn. Maarten is a softie. David simply took the smartphone with him. “You’ll get it back once this is resolved.” Maarten was speechless and forgot to ask what needed resolving. David also forbade him from ever contacting Olivia again. His look had been so cold that Maarten wouldn’t dare.

He sits on a frozen bench in the park. His emotions are deeply chilled. His initial rage has dulled slightly. He can’t truly be angry at Maarten. The man genuinely believed he had a relationship with her. But the thought of another man touching his girlfriend—unbearable. And so he feels hatred that stands still like frozen blood.

David is not a man who easily shows emotion. Half an hour later, he walks to Olivia’s room with an expression of steel. She’s asleep. Fine.

He switches off Maarten’s phone and places it in a drawer of his desk. The rest of the day he behaves surprisingly normal. Kind, even. He brings her an espresso in bed. Prepares dinner. Does laundry. Only now does he notice how often she’s on her phone.

The next day he checks Maarten’s phone. She has sent a message. “I miss you. When will I see you again?”

He doesn’t reply. Olivia is oblivious, and David remains calm. As always. But now his calm is so cold even he feels startled.

Days pass. There are now at least thirty messages from her on Maarten’s phone.

“Why aren’t you responding?”

“Are you angry?”

“I love you.”

Sometimes he replies with surgical precision. “Maarten’s replies” grow colder, less affectionate.

“I’m busy. No time for now.”

“You know I love you, it’s just not convenient.”

Often he ignores her on purpose. If there’s one thing Olivia can’t stand, it’s being ignored. So that is exactly what “Maarten” does.

One evening he casually asks when she’ll visit Noëlla again. She answers absently that Noëlla is with family for a few days. He hears the disappointment in her voice. Sees her sadness. Heartbreak, he thinks bitterly. Jealousy has become a painfully familiar emotion. For a moment she looks at him longer than usual, as if she wants to say something doesn’t add up—but the words dissolve before they form.

Days slide by. Two weeks later, Olivia is a wreck. Her phone use borders on obsessive. Even at dinner she openly sends messages, one after another. In the distance he hears the faint notification sounds coming from Maarten’s phone in his study.

After dinner he regularly sends a reply:

“You’re not really my type.”

“Maybe we should take a break.”

“Your body isn’t as tight as it used to be.”

“You never have anything interesting to say.”

“It’s become boring with you.”

“Stop messaging me.”

“You’re making things worse.”

Five minutes later he appears in her doorway as the loving David. “Who are you texting so much?” he asks lightly. Some part of him believes she’ll confess one day. She doesn’t.

He decides it has gone on long enough. Time for the final confrontation.

She’s in bed, her door closed. She is typing so furiously he can hear it from the hallway. He walks to his study and retrieves Maarten’s phone. Dozens of messages—each more desperate than the last. From furious to pleading. From crying to demanding.

“You can’t treat me like this.”

“What did I do wrong?”

“I won’t be ignored.”

“At least have the guts to say you’ve found someone else.”

“I’ve never been so wrong about anyone.”

“You’re my biggest disappointment.”

“If you don’t reply now, I’m coming over.”

“You owe me an explanation.”

“You’re my great love.”

He walks toward her door with the phone in hand. Each new message she sends triggers the notification sound from the phone he carries.

He opens her door. She’s just hit “send.” The phone in his hand lights up. He opens her message and reads it aloud:

“I hate you and regret every year I ever loved you.”

She looks confused, horrified. She opens her mouth, but her hope crumbles like snow under heavy boots.

“I found this phone two weeks ago under the snow by the pond. I think it’s Noëlla’s phone.

Or is Noëlla actually Maarten?”

He spits the words like shards. His calm is so cold it terrifies her.

Slowly the truth seeps in. She has been texting David for two weeks—not Maarten. She wasn’t rejected by Maarten. She was rejected by David.

With eyes like icicles he delivers the final blow.

“I didn’t know disappointment had such a low freezing point. Want me to be honest about what I still feel for you?

Nothing. And even that is too much.”

He closes her door with measured composure and leaves the house—drenched in the very emotion he despises most.

Jealousy.