He didn't speak when he carried me inside.
The night air was still clinging to my skin,
but his warmth was stronger—steady, unshaking—
as if nothing had changed…
as if I had never tried to leave.
One arm beneath my knees.
One around my back.
Careful. Certain. Familiar.
The door closed behind us with a quiet sound that felt louder than any argument.
Inside the house, silence waited.
Not peaceful silence.
The kind that listens.
My heartbeat was uneven,
too fast for the quiet around us.
I wanted to say something.
To protest.
To remind him that I was leaving.
But the words stayed trapped somewhere between pride and pain.
He walked straight to the bedroom,
without hesitation,
like his feet already knew where this night would end.
Slowly—almost gently—
he lowered me onto the bed.
For a moment… nothing happened.
He just looked at me.
And in his eyes there was no anger now.
Only something deeper.
Something tired.
Something I had been waiting two years to see
and was suddenly afraid to understand.
"Why did you leave?"
His voice was quiet.
Not accusing.
Not loud.
Just… heavy.
"No divorce. No explanation.
You are my wife, Myra."
Wife.
The word touched somewhere fragile inside me.
I forced myself to breathe.
"You don't love me," I whispered.
"So why does it matter?
I don't want to be your wife anymore."
Each word felt like pulling thread from my own heart.
His jaw tightened slowly,
as if he was holding back something dangerous.
"Then whose wife do you want to be?"
Silence filled the space between us—
thick, shaking, alive.
"Anyone," I said, barely breathing.
"…but not yours."
The moment the words left me,
I wished I could take them back.
Because something changed in his eyes.
Not anger.
Not exactly.
More like…
a door breaking open after being locked too long.
What followed wasn't sudden.
It wasn't rushed.
It felt like time itself slowed down,
watching two people who had stayed silent for too many years.
All the distance.
All the waiting.
All the unspoken nights.
Everything moved closer…
inch by inch…
breath by breath…
Until the world outside the room disappeared completely.
Morning arrived softly.
Golden light slipped through the curtains
and rested across the bed like a quiet confession.
For a few seconds,
I forgot everything.
Then I felt his arm around me.
Warm. Heavy.
Unwilling to let go.
I tried to move carefully,
slow enough that he wouldn't notice.
His arm tightened instantly.
"Leaving again…?"
His voice was rough with sleep.
"…just stay.
A little longer."
"I was going to call Anamika," I murmured.
"To check if she's okay."
"She's fine," he said quietly,
pulling me closer without opening his eyes.
"Sleep… Myra."
There was something peaceful in that moment.
Something dangerously close to happiness.
And that scared me the most.
Because peace like this…
never stayed.
Time passed without permission.
The day turned into evening
before I finally stood in front of the mirror.
And there—
on my neck—
were marks I couldn't ignore.
Proof of closeness.
Proof of weakness.
Proof that my heart still chose him
even when my mind begged it not to.
Anger rose first.
Then a strange softness.
Then sadness… deeper than both.
A thought formed quietly:
Maybe this isn't love.
Maybe he just doesn't know how to let me go.
The door opened behind me.
I saw him in the mirror before I turned.
Peach sweater.
Black pants.
Calm face.
Unreadable eyes.
He walked toward me slowly—
not like last night.
Not urgent.
Not angry.
Just… careful.
His arms wrapped around me from behind,
hesitant for the first time.
As if he was unsure
whether he still had the right.
His fingers moved my hair aside,
gentle… almost asking permission.
My breath caught.
And that frightened me more than anything.
I turned quickly.
"Stop," I said, voice shaking.
"This isn't love.
You're just… hurting me.
I regret loving you."
The words fell into the room
and stayed there.
He didn't move.
For a long moment,
he only looked at me—
like he was seeing something break
that he didn't know how to fix.
"Regret…?"
he whispered.
And in that single word
was more pain
than all our arguments combined.
The distance between us disappeared again—
not because of anger,
not because of desire—
but because neither of us
knew how to survive
without the other.