'You can't seek a divorce from me.'
James's voice was low, almost calm, but it carried the weight of finality. He pushed his chair back from the dining table, the legs scraping against the marble floor with a sound that sliced through the silence. Without another glance, he turned toward the hallway that led to their bedroom.
James was a man who despised chaos. He avoided arguments the way others avoided fire—swiftly, instinctively. Whenever tension rose, he would retreat, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than any shouted word. To Lune, that silence was unbearable. It wasn't peace; it was dismissal. Every time he walked away, she felt herself shrinking, unseen, unheard.
She followed him into the dim hallway, her bare feet brushing against the cold tiles. The air was thick, the only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen behind them. Shadows stretched along the walls, swallowing her as she hurried to catch up.
'I will initi—'
'She might not be sleeping,' he interrupted, his voice a whisper but sharp enough to cut her off. He turned slightly, just enough for her to see the faint arch of his brow. 'You don't want her to hear any of this.'
Lune's lips parted, but no words came. He reached for the latch, the metallic click echoing in the stillness, and stepped inside their room. She followed, her heart pounding with a rhythm that seemed too loud for the quiet space.
The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. The air smelled faintly of his cologne—woody, expensive, familiar. The silence between them was suffocating, thick with everything unsaid. Lune stood near the door, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her blouse, while James moved with deliberate calm.
He unbuttoned his shirt, one button at a time, his movements slow and precise. The faint rustle of fabric filled the air. He removed his watch and placed it carefully on the nightstand, the metal clinking softly against the wood. Then came the sound of his belt unbuckling—a sharp, metallic snap that made Lune flinch. He changed into his shorts, his back to her, his shoulders broad and tense under the lamplight.
'Are you going to simply stare at me?' His voice was quiet, but it carried a restrained edge.
He didn't turn around. He stood before the mirror, his reflection watching her instead. Nine years of marriage had turned into something unrecognizable—an arrangement of habits, obligations, and unspoken resentments.
There was no love between them. Not hate either. Just a hollow space where both had once lived for each other.
'I can't fake it anymore,' she said finally, her voice trembling but steady enough to be heard. 'Not for people, not even for myself. I know you've cared, James. Maybe not in the way I needed, but you've cared—for Natalia, especially. You've been a good father. But we can't keep pretending. We can move on. We can find love—our true love.'
James's lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. 'Sean,' he murmured, almost to himself.
The name hit her like a slap. Her breath caught, her eyes widening.
'We shouldn't talk about that,' she whispered, blinking rapidly, her voice breaking.
James turned then, his gaze locking onto hers. His steps were slow, deliberate, each one echoing softly against the wooden floor. There was something haunting in the way he moved—controlled, graceful, but heavy with emotion.
'You have true love,' he said, his tone low, almost tender. 'But what about me, Lune? Huh?' He leaned forward, his face inches from hers, his breath warm against her skin. 'What about me?'
She couldn't answer. The question hung between them, trembling in the air.
'I'm not selfish,' he continued, his voice rougher now. 'Don't think that because of what I've said. But tell me—what about me? I've given everything to Natalia. She's my only daughter because you wanted it that way. You didn't want another child. You didn't want our child. And I accepted that. I told myself it was fine. But I knew why, Lune. I always knew.'
He paused, his eyes glinting under the soft light.
'You never let him go,' he said quietly. 'You never even tried. You kept him here—' he tapped his chest, then his temple '—in your heart, in your mind. And that's what hurts the most. You talk about true love, but I don't have one. I never did. You were never really mine.'
The words fell like stones, heavy and final.
Lune's throat tightened. She wanted to speak, to defend herself, to tell him he was wrong—but the truth was there, raw and undeniable. The silence that followed was deafening. James turned away, his reflection in the mirror now a stranger's.
The room felt colder. The air heavier.
And for the first time in years, Lune realized that the end had already begun long before either of them had dared to speak it aloud.
James pulled the black hood over his head, the fabric brushing against his jaw as he adjusted it. The night was cool, the kind that carried a faint whisper of rain in the air. He slipped into his dark shorts, tied the laces of his sneakers, and stood before the mirror for a moment. His reflection stared back—calm, composed, unreadable. To anyone else, he looked like a man heading out for a casual walk, maybe a late-night jog. But James wasn't escaping into the night for leisure. He was escaping from the silence that had begun to suffocate him.
He had done this many times before—leaving quietly, without a word, without explanation. The world outside didn't ask questions. The streets didn't demand answers. Out there, he could breathe.
From the outside, James appeared indifferent, almost cold. People often mistook his quietness for detachment, his calm for apathy. But beneath that still surface was a man who had learned to bury his pain so deeply that even he sometimes forgot where it began. He had mastered the art of silence—not because he didn't feel, but because feeling had never done him any good.
He had learned to hide everything. The disappointment. The longing. The ache of being unseen by the one person he had given everything to.
At the beginning of their marriage, he had been nothing more than a friend—a loyal one. He had stepped into the role her family wanted him to play, believing that maybe, just maybe, he could make her happy. He had promised himself that even if she never loved him, he would protect her, care for her, and keep her safe. That was enough, he had told himself. Friendship was enough.
But marriage had changed everything. What had once been a bond of laughter and shared memories had turned into a quiet battlefield of unspoken truths. The warmth that had once existed between them had cooled into politeness, and the comfort of friendship had been replaced by the weight of obligation.
He understood her silence. How could she speak to him—the same man who had once listened to her talk endlessly about another? He remembered those early days, when she would sit beside him, her eyes glowing as she spoke of Sean. Her voice would soften when she mentioned his name, her smile would linger a little longer. Every story she told had Sean in it—his laughter, his touch, his words.
That was how deeply she had loved Sean. And that was how deeply James had learned to hide.
What could she possibly say to him now? That she loved him? They both knew that wasn't true—not in the way love was meant to be. Their marriage had been built on duty, not desire. On comfort, not connection. They had a family, yes, but it was a family born of compromise, not passion.
Still, James couldn't understand what was happening inside him. He told himself he cared for her as a friend, that his devotion was nothing more than loyalty. But then why did it hurt so much to see her distant? Why did he crave her attention, her smile, her voice? Why did he feel a hollow ache every time she looked at him with that polite, detached kindness?
He wanted her respect. That was all he had ever asked for. He didn't want to lose that. He wanted her near him, even if she didn't love him. He wanted her presence—the sound of her footsteps in the hallway, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air, the quiet rustle of her turning pages late at night. He wanted her close enough to remind him that he wasn't entirely alone.
But deep down, he knew the truth. It wasn't just friendship anymore. It hadn't been for a long time. What he felt for her wasn't duty—it was love. A quiet, aching, unspoken love that had grown in the shadows of their shared life.
He had tried to deny it, to bury it beneath reason and restraint. But love had a way of seeping through the cracks, of finding its way into the smallest moments—the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the way she smiled faintly when she thought no one was watching, the way her voice softened when she spoke to their daughter.
He loved her. And that terrified him.
Because to her, he was a man without passion. A man who had once sworn never to love again. She knew about his past—the girlfriend he had lost a decade ago, the promise he had made to himself that love was too dangerous, too painful to ever touch again. He had believed that vow for years. Until her.
Now, as he stepped out into the night, the cool air hit his face, sharp and cleansing. The streetlights cast long shadows across the pavement, and the city hummed quietly in the distance. He pulled his hood tighter, his hands sinking into his pockets.
He walked aimlessly, his thoughts heavy, his heart heavier. The night had always been his refuge, but tonight it felt different—lonelier, colder. The truth he had been avoiding pressed against his chest, suffocating him.
He loved her. And she would never love him back.
The realization settled over him like the night itself—dark, endless, and inescapably real.