In the quiet of their Singapore flat, the son’s evenings are shattered by his father’s poorly concealed “hush-hush” voice notes to his mistress. Dad retreats to a corner, thinking the low volume hides his sweet nothings and late-night plans, but the thin walls betray him—every tender word, every chuckle drifts through the living room where the family sits. Mum stares at the TV, expression blank, acting as if she hears nothing, while the son clenches his fists, stomach churning with disgust.
Voice Notes to Mistress
The blatant secrecy-in-plain-sight feels more repulsive than a hidden affair; it’s performed right under their noses, yet treated as invisible. Night after night, those muffled confessions of love pollute the air the family breathes together. The son escapes later and later, anything to avoid the nauseating soundtrack of betrayal. How can Dad whisper devotion to another woman while his wife and children sit mere metres away, forced to listen? The hypocrisy is suffocating, turning home into a theatre of quiet revulsion.
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