It was 11:44 PM, and she lay still in bed, staring at the ceiling. The room was dark, only a dim glow of her phone screen resting on the nightstand. She didn't reach for it. She didn't care to see the time. She knew it was late.
She felt blank.
The weight of the last year sat on her chest, heavier than ever. It was the absence that hurt the most - the absence of touch, of warmth, of love. She had spent so many nights wondering, "Why doesn't he want me?".
At first, she thought maybe he was stressed. Maybe he was tired. Maybe something was wrong that had nothing to do with her. But then the excuses ran out. Two months passed, and still, nothing. No hands on her waist, no fingers brushing against her skin, no heat from his lips.
She had always been the one to reach for him, to kiss him first, to touch him first. But at some point, she stopped trying. Not because she didn't want to, but because she was afraid of the rejection. Afraid of the way he would pull away or turn his head or push her aside like she was nothing.
She didn't understand why he didn't want her anymore.
Or maybe she did.
She had changed. Her body had changed. Her breasts were smaller, her curves less pronounced. When she looked in the mirror, all she saw was everything she had lost. He never told her she was beautiful anymore. He never looked at her the way he used to.
She used to feel desired. Now she felt invisible.
She tried so hard to be better for him. To be quieter. To be softer. To be less angry, less demanding, less... everything. But no matter what she did, it was never enough. If she fought, it was her fault. If she stayed silent, it was still her fault.
She couldn't win.
And still, she stayed.
even in the silence, even in the emptiness, she still wanted him. She still yearned for his touch, for his love, for something to fill the aching void inside her.
But love isn't supposed to be begged for.
She rolled onto her side, pressing her face into the pillow. A tear slipped down her cheek, hot against her cold skin. She wiped it away quickly, as if it didn't count if she pretended it wasn't there.
He didn't know any of this.
He didn't know that she still thought about those two months. That she still panicked at the memory of his dismissiveness. That she had stopped looking at herself in the mirror because she couldn't stand what she saw.
He didn't know how deeply his words had cut her, how the casual way he said he didn't want to marry her echoed in her head over and over.
He didn't know how lonely she was.
And she hoped he never would.
Because at the end of the day, she would just smile and wave. Act like nothing was wrong. Pretend she was happy.
She needed to be delusional, after all.
She was alone.
