The morning after Benjamin walked out, Miranda sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the spot he used to occupy—an untouched space, the pillow still puffed and the blanket smooth and unwrinkled. The emptiness was louder than any argument they'd ever had.
The silence was not new but this silence was different. It was final. Heavy with truth and trembling with consequences, it was only a matter of time before both families start calling.
Her fingers dug into the sheets as her mind drifted back—not to the affair, not to the café, not to the stranger—but to the beginning. The very beginning.
Because love stories usually start with warmth. With spark. With serendipity but hers didn't.
Her story began with two families shaking hands across a polished mahogany table, discussing dowries and business ties as if planning a merger. Marriage was a logical next step. A strategic alliance. A tidy knot tying their legacies together.
Miranda Dalton had been 20—old enough to know her desires, yet young enough to be persuaded that desire didn't matter.
Benjamin Blackwood had also been 23—quiet, well-mannered, dutiful. The kind of man who made parents proud, not hearts flutter.
Their wedding day felt like someone else's celebration. She remembered smiling for photographs until her cheeks hurt. She remembered bowing her head as her mother, Mrs. Dalton whispered, "Marriage is about obedience and endurance. Feelings come later—or they don't. It doesn't matter. What matters is stability."
Miranda believed her. For a while though.
She and Benjamin entered their new home like polite strangers. Their early conversations were measured, polite. He worked long hours. She tried to fit into what a "good wife" should be—efficient, neat, predictable.
Days turned into weeks. Benjamin left the house before sunrise and returned well after dusk. He worked in logistics and distribution—travel was inevitable, he said.
He always sounded apologetic. Never malicious. Just emotionally absent.
In the early days of their marriage, Miranda called her mother often.
"Be patient," her mother would say. "Most men don't show affection. That is for movies, reality is much different"
Her father, Mr. Dalton would add, " A quiet husband is better than a troublesome one."
So Miranda swallowed the discomfort.
She endured the empty dinners and adapted to sleeping alone.
But loneliness has a shape. A weight and voice.
And it whispered to her every night as she lay in the dim glow of her bedside lamp.
Their wedding night had been stiff, awkward—two inexperienced couples fumbling under pressure, hearts pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with passion.
Benjamin had kissed her forehead and then her mouth. Climbed into bed with an apologetic smile. He was gentle, almost too gentle, as if touching something fragile, but the foreplay was too short lived.
The experience was quick, clumsy, and silent.
Afterward, he had rolled over, breathing like it was done—like he had completed a task, checked a box, fulfilled a marital duty.
"We'll get better with time," he had said.
But time didn't make things better.
Time only made things predictable, He never tried more than missionary.
Never moved his hands with intention. Never looked at her like a woman—only a wife. The only sounds during intimacy were the ticking clock and Benjamin's quiet grunts.
Sometimes he didn't last one minute, Sometimes thirty seconds and Miranda always lay there afterward, staring at the ceiling, feeling like she was disappearing into the plaster.
Once again, she tried to spice their intimacy, everything went wrong.
She had worn a silk nightdress she bought at a mall. A soft pale-blue thing that made her feel womanly, alive and capable of being desirable.
Benjamin came home late from a trip, exhausted but smiling.
"Welcome back," she said softly, stepping closer, letting her fingers trail over his chest.
He stiffened. "What's this for?"
"I missed you," she whispered.
His eyes ran over the silk fabric, and instead of excitement, suspicion clouded his face.
"Where did you get that?"
"A store, Ben. I just—"
"And why now? Why after all this time?"
She blinked. "Because I wanted to feel attractive to you."
His eyes narrowed. "Did someone else make you feel that way?"
The accusation hit her so hard she froze.
"No! Ben, I—"
"Then why this sudden… performance?"
"Performance?" Her voice cracked. "I'm your wife. I was trying to make you want me."
"I do want you," he said defensively.
She waited. "Then show me."
But he didn't.
Instead, he sighed, annoyed and tired. "Miranda, you're overthinking. You want too much. And by the way, am tired, it's been a long day, am not really feeling whatever this is"
She felt something inside her fold into itself.
That was the night she understood that nothing would ever change between her and Ben, there were times she wondered if he was seeing someone behind her back, because truly she could not understand his behaviour.
And that understanding echoed through their marriage like a ghost.
Months rolled into years, The house stayed clean, The meals stayed warm, The bed stayed cold and Benjamin travelled more frequently. He always returned with souvenirs—keychains, chocolates, postcards and some other expensive items—but never affection. Never warmth.
Miranda told herself their marriage wasn't broken, it was just quiet, practical and normal but the longing inside her grew teeth. She often stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror—hair neatly pulled back, skin clear but tired, eyes dimmed by unspoken yearning.
"Is this really my life?" she would whisper.
And then she would brush her teeth, wash her face, and convince herself that routine meant stability. Stability meant success. And success meant she was lucky, Except she didn't feel lucky. She felt invisible.
Her café was the one place where she wasn't trapped in quiet expectations.
It was small, cozy, and filled with the warm smell of roasted beans. Wooden tables. Yellow lights. A soft bell above the door.
When customers came, she smiled—a real smile. People laughed there, joked, flirted, argued over pastries. The café was alive and Miranda was alive when she was there. Even Benjamin noticed once. "You always sound so cheerful when you talk about that place," he'd said over the phone during one of his trips.
"It makes me happy," she replied.
"Well… good," he said, tone flat but polite. "As long as it keeps you occupied while I'm gone."
That word—occupied—hit her like a slap. Not cherished, Not supported, Not personally fulfilled. Just occupied… just what kind of a man did she marry, was he really that clueless.
She realized then that Benjamin didn't see the café as her passion. He saw it as her babysitter.
Her parents visited rarely, but whenever they did, her mother carefully scanned every corner of the house, praising Miranda's beautiful home and well organised house staffs more than her emotional well-being.
"You're doing well," her mother would say. "Your husband works. Your home is in order. That's what matters."
"What about happiness?" Miranda had once asked quietly.
Her mother gave her a puzzled look. "Happiness is a luxury not everyone can have completely, besides, Marriage is endurance."
Her father nodded in agreement. "You are blessed, Miranda. Many women suffer worse."
Miranda had smiled tightly and offered them more tea.
But later that night, lying alone in bed, she pressed a pillow to her face and cried silently. Not because she was unloved, but because no one seemed to truly listen.
Another year passes, Benjamin's absences grew more normalized. The house no longer felt like a shared home—more like a hotel she maintained for someone who occasionally visited.
He was polite, gentle, responsible… But not emotionally present.
He never asked how she felt, Never asked what she wanted, Never noticed when she was hurting and always assumed she was fine with anything.
And Miranda, for all her patience, could only pretend indifference for so long. Her heart was starving, Touch-deprived, Affection-deprived, Attention-deprived.
Her café gave her warmth during the hours it was open—but in the evenings, the coldness returned like a tide. Sometimes she lay awake imagining what passion might feel like. What it would feel like to be kissed deeply, held tightly, wanted without restraint.
The silence in the house was often louder than any sound. It was past midnight, and the sterile perfection of Miranda's home felt like a glass cage. Michael was gone again, chasing business deals. Miranda lay in their king-sized bed, the expansive space feeling cruelly empty.
Tonight, the frustration was a cold, hard knot tightening in her chest. It wasn't just the absence of sex; it was the absence of passion. Her body felt like a vibrant vessel perpetually denied its purpose.
She reached for the tablet she kept hidden beneath a stack of boring Newspapers. With eager fingers, she navigated to the dark corner of the internet porn that had become her secret escape hatch.
The screen flared to life, filling the suffocating darkness with light and sound—a world of raw, unedited, screaming desire. She pulled the covers up to her chin, creating a small, private tent where she could finally breathe.
Miranda didn't watch for technique; she watched for the unbridled emotion. She watched the way the woman surrendered control, the way their faces contorted in pleasure, the way she was taken repeatedly, thoroughly, without question or judgment.
Her mind began its familiar drift, transporting her out of the cold, respectable prison of her life. She closed her eyes, and the sounds of the video became the soundscape of her fantasy as she imagined herself as the female porn star in the video.
She imagined a heavy presence, not the familiar, fleeting weight of Ben, but a demanding, powerful energy. She imagined being pinned down, taken without permission, the boundaries she was forced to maintain in real life dissolving instantly. She imagined the exhilarating weight of a body that wanted her, truly wanted her, filling her completely.
Her hand found her own warm, desperate core. As the images on the screen intensified, Miranda's breath became ragged, mirroring the cries echoing through her ear buds. She pushed deeper into the fantasy, creating the rhythm that Benjamin never could, constructing the passion that her marriage utterly lacked.
She fantasized about being over-filled, pushed to the absolute brink, her body treated not as a vessel for reproduction but as an object of pure, ravenous desire. She imagined the sheer, glorious power of release, attained through reckless abandon.
The pressure mounted—a sharp, dizzying peak of sensation that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with release. A long, shuddering gasp tore from her throat, muffled safely beneath the duvet. The tension in her body broke, shattering into waves of sublime, exhausting warmth.
Her muscles went slack. The tablet slid from her grasp onto the mattress, the screen still flickering, and its sounds a distant, meaningless murmur now. A profound, heavy sense of satisfaction settled over her as the knot in her chest dissolved.
It was a cheap trick to temporarily facilitate her release, but it worked. For a fleeting hour, her body had felt alive. She rolled onto her side, the warm, sticky evidence of her pleasure, a secret against the crisp, expensive cotton sheets.
Within minutes, she was asleep, a deep, dreamless sleep of exhaustion and temporary satisfaction.