Chapter 5 – The Cost of Staying
Amara began to lose weight without trying.
At first, she didn't notice. Her clothes felt looser, her reflection a little sharper around the edges, but she told herself it was stress, a busy schedule, skipped meals she would make up for later. It was only when Sofia stopped her in the hallway after church one Sunday and placed both hands on her shoulders that the truth pierced through denial.
"You're disappearing," Sofia said softly.
Amara forced a smile. "I'm still here."
"Barely," Sofia replied. "When was the last time you ate a full meal?"
Amara opened her mouth, then closed it again. She couldn't remember.
That frightened her more than she was willing to admit.
Sleep became another casualty.
Nights were the worst. Daniel would fall asleep quickly, his breathing deep and steady, while Amara lay awake beside him, staring into the dark, replaying conversations that never reached resolution. She listened for changes in his breathing, movements that suggested restlessness, signs of guilt or restlessness that might confirm her fears.
Sometimes she would get up quietly and sit in the living room, knees pulled to her chest, Bible open on her lap but unread. The words blurred together, promises she had memorized now feeling distant and unreachable.
Come to me, all who are weary…
She closed the book.
"I am weary," she whispered. "Why do I still feel alone?"
At work, the cracks began to show.
Amara missed a deadline for the first time in years. Then another. She stared at her computer screen for long stretches, unable to focus, her thoughts drifting back to home—to Daniel's silences, to unanswered questions, to the constant emotional vigilance that drained her more than any argument ever could.
Jonah knocked lightly on her office door one afternoon.
"Do you have a minute?" he asked.
"Of course," she said, straightening quickly.
He sat across from her, concern etched plainly across his face. "You're burning out."
"I'm fine," she said, out of habit.
"You're not," he replied gently. "And you don't have to pretend here."
Something about his tone—steady, unintrusive—broke through her defenses.
"I don't know how to stop," she admitted quietly.
"Stop what?"
"Trying to hold everything together," she said. "If I let go, I'm afraid everything will fall apart."
Jonah nodded slowly. "Or maybe it's already falling apart—and you're the only one still holding it."
Her throat tightened.
That night, she cried in the shower so Daniel wouldn't hear.
Daniel noticed the changes, though he didn't always know what to do with them.
"You should eat more," he said one evening, watching her push food around her plate.
"I'm not hungry," she replied.
"You're never hungry anymore," he said, frowning. "Are you sick?"
She almost laughed. If only it were that simple.
"I'm just tired," she said.
"Of me?" he asked suddenly.
The question caught her off guard.
She looked at him, really looked at him—his guarded eyes, the tension he carried like armor, the love she still saw beneath it all.
"I'm tired with you," she said carefully. "Not of you."
He didn't seem comforted by the distinction.
They sat in silence, the distance between them measured not in space but in unspoken truths.
The breaking point came quietly, on an ordinary Thursday morning.
Amara woke up dizzy.
The room spun when she sat up, her vision narrowing, her heart pounding erratically. She tried to stand and nearly collapsed, catching herself on the edge of the bed.
Daniel jolted awake. "Amara?"
"I'm okay," she said automatically, though the words rang hollow.
"You're not," he said, helping her sit back down. "I'm calling in sick for you."
"No," she protested weakly. "I have work."
"You can barely stand," he said. "This isn't negotiable."
At the clinic, the doctor's expression was kind but serious.
"You're exhausted," she said after the exam. "Physically and emotionally. When was the last time you rested?"
Amara stared at the wall. She didn't know how to answer.
"Stress can manifest like this," the doctor continued. "If you don't address it, your body will keep forcing you to slow down."
On the drive home, Daniel was quiet.
"This is my fault, isn't it?" he asked finally.
Amara hesitated.
"I don't want to blame you," she said. "But this is what happens when I keep swallowing pain instead of speaking it."
He gripped the steering wheel tighter. "I didn't know it was this bad."
"I didn't either," she replied.
That was the truth—and it hurt.
Word traveled faster than Amara expected.
Her mother called the next day.
"You fainted?" she asked, alarmed.
"I didn't faint," Amara said. "I just got dizzy."
"Your body is speaking," her mother said firmly. "You should listen."
"I'm trying," Amara replied.
"Are you safe?" her mother asked quietly.
The question lingered.
"Yes," Amara said. "I'm safe."
But even as she said it, she wondered if safety meant more than the absence of physical harm.
That weekend, Daniel suggested a getaway.
"Just us," he said. "We need time."
Amara nodded. She wanted to want it. She wanted to believe that time alone could fix what honesty hadn't yet healed.
They drove out of the city to a small coastal town, the ocean stretching endlessly ahead of them. The air was cool, the rhythm of the waves soothing.
For a moment, it felt like the early days—walks along the shore, shared meals, quiet laughter.
But beneath it all, the tension remained.
That night, as they sat on the balcony overlooking the water, Daniel spoke.
"I feel like I'm always failing you," he said.
Amara wrapped her arms around herself. "I don't need perfection."
"What do you need?" he asked.
She considered the question carefully.
"I need honesty," she said. "Even when it's uncomfortable. Especially then."
He nodded. "I'll try."
The word try landed softly—and inadequately.
Later, as they lay in bed, Amara stared at the ceiling again, listening to the ocean this time instead of the fan.
She realized something then, with startling clarity.
Forgiveness had kept the marriage alive.
But it had nearly killed her.
And if nothing changed—if forgiveness continued to flow only one way—there would be nothing left of her to give.
Tears slipped silently down her face, absorbed by the pillow.
For the first time, she allowed herself to wonder—not with guilt, but with quiet honesty:
What if staying is not the bravest thing I can do?
The question scared her.
But it also felt like truth.