Marcus couldn't swallow the truth.
The more he heard whispers of me with someone else, the louder his pride screamed.
He told anyone who would listen that I had left because he had nothing. That I had chosen "better." That I was proof men should never give their all to a woman.
But behind the noise was his silence.
Late-night calls I ignored. Messages that grew from prideful to pleading. The sound of a man who finally realized I wasn't bluffing. And yet, every word he spoke only reminded me why I had left.
Because while Marcus was loud, Nathan was quiet.
Quiet in the way he noticed me. Quiet in the way his laughter filled the air like it belonged there. Quiet in the way he reached for my hand — gently, almost shyly — as though he couldn't believe I would let him hold it.
One evening, we stayed in, no plans, no parties. Just us, the glow of the TV, and his game console humming. The world outside felt far away, as though time had slowed just for the two of us.
He handed me a controller, determined to teach me the game. I was terrible at it, fumbling buttons, losing every round. My character kept "dying" before I even understood what I was doing, and Nathan's laughter came like sunlight, warm and unforced. Not mocking, not cruel, but the kind of laugh that pulled me in.
"Here, let me show you," he said, leaning closer. His hand brushed mine as he guided my fingers across the buttons. I felt the heat rise to my face, not because of the game but because of how close he was.
When I pouted dramatically, pretending to be upset, he chuckled and pulled me onto his lap with ease. His arms wrapped around me from behind, his chin brushing against my shoulder.
"Now you'll play better," he teased, voice low and playful.
"Or maybe you just want an excuse to hold me," I shot back.
He smiled, not denying it.
The night melted into soft things — his hand steadying mine as he guided me through the game, the warmth of his breath against my cheek, the way our laughter tangled like we had known each other far longer than we had.
Eventually, the controllers were abandoned, the game forgotten. I rested against him on the couch, legs curled beneath me, head leaning into the safe curve of his chest. His arms tightened around me like he was afraid I might slip away. There was no rush, no pressure, no expectations. Just a steady heartbeat pressed against my back.
The quiet stretched between us, but it wasn't empty. It was full — of safety, of comfort, of a thousand words left unspoken. And then, in that stillness, he asked the question that settled deep into me:
"Are you happy here?"
The weight of it wasn't in the words, but in the way he asked — like my happiness mattered, like my answer would change something.
I had prayed for peace, begged for freedom, longed for love that didn't feel like survival. And here he was — not accusing, not controlling, not promising the world. Just asking.
I turned slightly, catching the softness in his eyes. For the first time in years, I didn't feel like I had to defend myself. I didn't feel small, or weak, or like I was begging to be loved.
I just felt… seen.
And maybe that was the beginning of everything. Not the kiss, not the promises, not even the laughter. But that question.
Because in his silence, I finally heard what love was meant to sound like.