I didn't fall asleep immediately that night, but I wasn't thinking either.
I lay curled on the couch, staring into the darkness, my body heavy, my mind strangely still. It felt unnatural—this quiet inside my head. For weeks, my thoughts had been loud, chaotic, relentless. They had argued, accused, imagined, feared. Tonight, there was nothing.
No racing thoughts.
No replayed arguments.
No tears threatening to spill.
Just a hollow, unsettling numbness that wrapped itself around me like a thick blanket. I felt detached from my own body, as though I were watching myself from a distance. I wasn't angry. I wasn't sad. I wasn't even afraid.
I felt nothing at all.
Eventually, exhaustion claimed me.
When I woke up, the house was already alive with movement.
I heard the faint sound of footsteps, the rustle of fabric, the soft clink of metal against glass. My eyes fluttered open slowly, adjusting to the early morning light filtering through the curtains.
Albert was dressed and ready to leave.
The sight of him jolted me fully awake.
He stood near the doorway, perfectly put together as always—shirt crisp, tie straight, shoes polished. The man who never looked disorganized, never appeared unsure, never let the world see him unravel.
The sound of his shoes against the floor echoed louder than it should have. I sat up slowly, pulling the blanket closer around me as I watched him move about the living room, his expression neutral, unreadable.
He looked just like the man I had married.
Composed.
Controlled.
Distant.
"Good morning," I said cheerfully, surprising myself with how light my voice sounded.
The cheerfulness felt foreign, almost inappropriate, but it came anyway—automatic, practiced.
He glanced at me briefly and nodded. "Morning."
No kiss.
No lingering look.
No apology.
He picked up his briefcase and walked toward the door, then stopped with his hand resting on the handle. Without turning fully around, he spoke.
"I know you didn't mean anything you said last night."
The words were calm. Final. Dismissive.
And then he left.
The door shut softly behind him, the sound quiet but absolute.
I stared at it for a long moment.
"I meant every word," I whispered into the empty room.
The words didn't shake. They didn't tremble. They simply existed—firm, honest, undeniable.
I wasn't angry.
I wasn't hurt.
I was done pretending.
Done pretending not to notice the late nights.
Done pretending not to feel the distance.
Done pretending that reassurance without transparency was enough.
I was ready now.
Ready to hear everything.
Ready to see everything.
Ready to know everything.
I was tired of waiting for explanations that never came. Tired of standing still while my life quietly unraveled around me. Whatever the truth was—however ugly, however painful—I wanted it.
And if Albert wasn't ready to give it to me, then I would find it myself.
That thought settled firmly in my chest, heavy but steady.
I began my day.
I moved through my routine like someone following instructions they had memorized long ago. I made the bed. Cleaned the living room. Responded to emails. Organized paperwork I had been putting off for weeks.
It wasn't chaotic.
But it wasn't peaceful either.
It was controlled.
Albert didn't call from work.
I noticed—but it didn't sting the way it once would have. I expected him to be upset about the previous night, about my questions, about my refusal to be silenced. His pride had always been fragile in moments where control slipped through his fingers.
For once, my need for clarity felt bigger than his ego.
As the morning stretched into afternoon, a sudden realization struck me so sharply that I froze mid-step.
Kim.
My chest tightened instantly.
Kim was my closest friend—the one who knew me before marriage, before compromise, before I slowly disappeared into being someone's wife instead of myself. She had seen me cry over heartbreaks, laugh until my stomach hurt, dream out loud without fear.
We hadn't fought.
We hadn't argued.
We had simply drifted.
I had chosen my marriage.
Exclusively.
Relentlessly.
And in doing so, I had abandoned parts of myself I didn't even realize I was losing.
Before doubt could creep in, I picked up my phone and dialed her number.
She picked up on the first ring.
"Well, look who we have here," Kim said, laughter dancing in her voice. "Hi, Mrs. Peters."
A lump formed instantly in my throat.
All the guilt I had been carrying dissolved in that moment. Instead of resentment, there was warmth—real, unfiltered warmth.
"Hi, Kim," I replied softly.
"Girl, it's been ages!" she exclaimed. "What's good?"
"I'm sorry I haven't reached out," I said honestly. "There's been a lot going on."
"Oh please," she said easily. "Don't apologize. You're married now. That alone is a full-time job."
I laughed—and this time, it didn't feel forced.
"Why don't we meet up?" she continued. "Catch up. Old times' sake."
Relief washed over me so strongly I had to sit down.
"I'd love that," I said quickly. "Just text me the time and location."
"Say less," Kim replied. "I'll send it shortly."
When the call ended, I stared at my phone for a long moment.
I hadn't realized how lonely I had been until that moment.
I stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting warm water cascade over me. As I bathed, I felt something shift inside me—something loosening, something breathing again.
While I was still in the bathroom, my phone chimed.
Kim's text.
I smiled widely.
It felt like I was going on a date.
I dressed carefully—not too extravagant, not too simple. Something that reminded me of who I used to be. I applied light makeup, slipped into comfortable heels, and grabbed my keys.
The drive was short but nostalgic.
When I arrived, my heart squeezed painfully.
It was our usual spot.
The same eatery Kim and I had always loved—the one with the best chicken and chips, the pizza we could never finish, the coffee we swore cured heartbreak, the ice cream we ordered even when we were full.
It had been our therapy place.
Standing outside, memories flooded my mind—laughter, secrets, tears wiped away over shared meals. I swallowed hard, realizing how much time I had lost.
I stepped inside.
My eyes scanned the room until I saw her—seated in the corner, sipping coffee.
Kim.
She looked up, and the moment our eyes met, she stood.
I didn't walk.
I ran.
She opened her arms just in time to catch me, and the moment I collapsed into her embrace, something inside me finally gave way.
I broke down.
I cried into her shoulder, the tears coming fast and uncontrollable. I felt her stiffen in surprise, then tighten her arms around me protectively.
"It's okay," she whispered. "I've got you."
For the first time in a long while, I believed it.
And I let myself cry.