I shut the door behind him, and the silence that followed was like a wave. It was suffocating. My limbs felt heavy, like grief had sunk its teeth into me and refused to let go. I walked slowly back to the bedroom, our marital bed that now felt like a stranger's. I crawled under the sheets, curled into a ball, and let the tears hanging from my eyes spill freely. They came quietly at first, then like a storm.
I buried my wet face into Ethan's pillow, his scent still clinging to it; woodsy, expensive, masculine. But now it smelled like betrayal. Every breath I took felt like I was inhaling poison, a memory I couldn't escape. I pressed the pillow against my chest like it could hold me together, but it only reminded me of how empty I had become. How did we get here? Not long ago, Ethan would leave little notes on the mirror for me to find. Not long ago, he would pull me into his arms just because. Not long ago, he kissed me like I was his entire world. Now, he barely looks at me.
I tossed his pillow aside and reached under the bed, pulling out our wedding album. The one we used to slip through on our anniversaries or during lazy Sunday mornings. It is now our 5th year since I said yes to him. I opened the leather cover with trembling fingers and stared at our smiling faces. Tears fell on the pictures. There we were, laughing on the beach in Zanzibar, covered in sand and sunburn. Me in a white dress, him in those navy shorts and blue shirt that brought out his eyes, both of us looking like the future was ours to claim. There we were, cutting our wedding cake. And another one kissing with love. I ran my fingers over his face in the photos. My Ethan. My husband. My person. Where did he go?
I pressed the album into my chest and sobbed until my throat ached. I wanted to believe I was overthinking. That maybe his job was really overwhelming. That maybe I'd been too emotional lately, too clingy. I hated the voice in my head that whispered, "He is just not into you anymore." I stayed there for hours, crying, sleeping, and crying again.
It was the rumble in my stomach that finally forced me to move. The sky outside had turned to soft lavender. Evening. I dragged myself to the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, and stared at my reflection. My eyes were swollen. My cheeks were blotchy. I didn't recognize this woman. Still, I made my way to the kitchen. Because that's what wives do, right? They cook dinner. They pretend.
I went through the motions on autopilot. Washing rice, marinating chicken, chopping onions. I even lit candles on the table, like I used to when I wanted the night to be special. A soft instrumental playlist played in the background, and the scent of rosemary chicken filled the air. Maybe, just maybe tonight will be different. Maybe he would come carrying flowers like he used to and apologize, and we would go back to normal. Maybe he will see the effort on my side and remember that he still loved me.
I checked the time. 7:35PM. Then my phone buzzed. It was a message from him telling me not to wait. He was busy. That was it. No apology. No explanation. Just that cold text that sucked the last breath of hope out of me.
I sat down at the dining table anyway, the flickering candlelight casting soft shadows on the walls. I stared at the two plates I had set, the wine I poured for him untouched, the food slowly cooling on our best china. The music played on, a sad, slow piano piece that somehow knew how I felt. I sat there in silence for hours. Watching the candles melt down to wax puddles, until the flames died out, and I was left in the dark. And still, I waited. Like a fool. Like a woman holding onto a ghost. Like someone who hadn't realized she was already alone.