Nathan stared at his phone screen long after the message had gone dim.
> "Please don't chase me. Just hold space for me."
He'd read those words over and over for the past six hours. He hadn't responded. Not because he didn't want to—but because he didn't know what to say that wouldn't sound like begging. Or worse, blaming.
He wanted to scream.
Or cry.
Or drive across the city and find her and pull her into his arms and tell her he'd do anything—everything—to keep her.
But instead, he did what she asked.
He held space.
And that space was unbearable.
---
The house felt different without Isabelle. Smaller, somehow. Not quieter—because Isabelle had always been quiet in the mornings, tiptoeing, careful not to wake him. But emptier. Like the walls missed her touch. Like the air had forgotten how to move without the warmth of her breath.
He walked into the bedroom and sat at the edge of the bed they used to share. He reached over to her side, brushing his hand over the pillow she hadn't laid on in days.
She used to fall asleep curled up, one hand tucked under her cheek. He used to watch her, whisper goodnight into her hair, and let the curve of her body ease the noise in his mind.
But something had shifted. Slowly. Subtly. Like erosion.
The passion dimmed. The kisses became quicker. He blamed work. She blamed tiredness. Neither of them blamed the truth: that intimacy had become a habit instead of a hunger.
And now—she was gone. Not in body. But in the way that mattered most.
---
Nathan poured a drink, though it was barely 4:00 PM. Just something to soften the sharp edge of his thoughts.
He replayed the last few weeks—the changes in her. The dress. The lingerie. The fire in her eyes. And then… the walls she'd hit. The distance. The ache.
He had welcomed her seduction without realizing it had come from desperation. A cry for connection, not just pleasure.
God, he felt like a fool.
He thought he'd won her back with sex.
But maybe she'd just been trying to see if she still existed to him.
He walked into her studio—the small room in their home she barely used anymore. It still smelled faintly of acrylics and lavender. A dusty easel leaned against the wall. Her sketchbooks sat untouched on a shelf. One was open to a charcoal drawing of a faceless woman with wild hair and open hands.
He picked it up.
The sketch wasn't finished, but it had feeling. Movement. A kind of longing.
He'd forgotten how good she was. How expressive. She used to leave little drawings on sticky notes around the house in their early days—sketches of him asleep, of their coffee mugs, of her feet tangled with his under the sheets.
When had she stopped?
When had he stopped noticing?
He looked around the room, imagining her here—paint on her fingers, brow furrowed in concentration, music in the background. She came alive in these spaces. Not in the perfectly folded laundry or dinner prep routines. In chaos. In color.
Maybe Elijah had seen that too.
The thought hit like a punch to the gut.
He knew about the man. She never admitted the name, but Nathan had read the signs—late-night messages she deleted, the way she sometimes stared too long at her phone before putting it face-down. And once, during a heated argument years ago, she had said, "I chose you. Don't make me regret it."
That haunted him more than any confession.
Had he been enough?
Was he now?
Nathan took a long breath and pulled out his own journal. He used to write music before he became a full-time accountant. Used to play guitar in college, back when Isabelle would sit cross-legged on the floor and hum to his unfinished songs.
He hadn't played in years.
Now he flipped to a blank page and began to write—not a love song. A letter.
To her.
---
Dear Isabelle,
I didn't chase you. You asked me not to.
But every inch of me is running toward you inside my chest.
I've been trying to be the man who holds steady. Who gives you space. But I have to tell you—I see you now.
The you I didn't really look at for too long.
The you who's been shrinking herself to fit the life we built.
You were never just a wife.
You were never just mine.
You are wild and wounded and brilliant and aching to be whole.
And I think I forgot that.
I loved the comfort too much. I stopped reaching for the fire.
But you deserve the fire.
I don't want to lose you to another man, or to art, or to silence.
But if losing you is what wakes me up—then so be it.
I want to be worthy of you, even if I'm not the man who inspired your canvas today.
Just know that I see you now.
And if you ever walk back through our door, I'll meet you differently.
Not with expectation.
But with awe.
Love,
Nathan
---
He stared at the letter. Tears clung stubbornly to his lashes, but he let them fall.
Then he folded the page and slid it into one of her sketchbooks. Not to guilt her. Not to beg.
But so she'd find it one day.
If she ever wanted to remember that he had finally—truly—seen her.
That night, Nathan didn't drink.
He didn't text.
He didn't chase.
He just sat with her absence, and for the first time, understood what it meant to love someone who was becoming something new.
And he vowed that if she ever came back, he wouldn't try to put her into a box again.
He would let her burn.
And maybe—if he was brave enough—he'd burn beside her.