And I did.
God, I did.
And now I hated myself for it.
I scrubbed my skin like I could erase what we were.
Scrubbed with the blistering heat of the water until the water ran cold and my fingers wrinkled.
When I stepped out, I wrapped myself in the fluffiest robe I owned.The pale blue one with the sleeves that were too long and the sash that tied twice around my waist, twice.
Still dripping, I left the bathroom, silenced my phone buzzing on the nightstand and put it in my pocket, and walked straight to the kitchen.
Coffee.I needed coffee.
And food.My stomach growled, a sharp reminder of everything I didn’t get last night.
I’d planned the whole night to celebrate us, a beautiful dinner.Took effort to set the table.I had wine chilling and candles waiting to be lit.
It was supposed to be loving and romantic.
It was supposed to be a celebration of our anniversary.
One year.
But he didn’t even look at the table.
I don't know if he even really looked at me.
He just took what he wanted.
I popped bread into the toaster and pulled a mug from the shelf, letting the scent of coffee ground me.Let the normalcy of the routine push back the chaos.
I took it out to the balcony with my toast smothered in maple butter and the blanket I kept in a basket by the sliding doors.The wind was sharp, cutting through the quiet.The air smelled like turning leaves and distant woodsmoke.
Fall always brought me back to myself.
The cold.The clarity.The way everything started to die, yet still looked beautiful in the process.
I wrapped the blanket around my legs and took a sip of coffee, breathing in the steam.
And then a memory cut through...
Me, curled up beside him one night, telling him my hopes of building my dream home and a tiny library outback on my property where I would raise my family someday.
A “she shed” with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, cozy armchairs, and an office tucked into the back where I could finally write for myself and see my name on the spine.
He’d said we could have that someday.
Then he’d laughed.“What would you need an office for?”
He didn’t know.
Because I’d never told him.
Not about the bestsellers I’d ghostwritten.
Not about the top-ten lists I’d quietly dominated under someone else’s name.
