A thought locks into place.
“No,” I whisper.
No.
She isn’t really gone.
Shecan’tbe.
She is just… angry. Hurt. This is a punishment. A cry for attention.A test. It has to be. A test of my commitment. A test of my love. She wants to see if I’ll fight for her, or if I’ll just stand here and let the house get dusty.
“She’ll come back,” I say aloud, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat.
She has to.
The alternative is unthinkable. The alternative is a future without her. The alternative is an empty house, an empty bed, an empty life.
This is temporary.
She’s overwhelmed.
She’s not thinking clearly.
She’s acting out of emotion, not logic.
She’s confused.
But she’ll calm down.
She’ll realize she can’t just leave. She’ll realize she belongs here. Belongs right here, nestled into the grooves of our life, like a piece of furniture that’s finally settled into the floorboards.
With me.
“She’s not gone,” I mutter, surging to my feet and pacing the room, the ring a cold, hard knot in my sweating palm. “She’s just… upset. That’s all. She just needs time.”
Yes.
Time.
That’s all.
Time heals all wounds. Time erases all sins. Time turns betrayal into memory and memory into forgiveness.
She’ll realize she made a mistake, that leaving was a rash decision, that the note was written in anger, not in truth. I’m the only one who knows how to turn the lights on for her. She just needs to sit in the dark long enough to remember that. That she loves me. She needs me.
I cross to the window. The street outside is empty.
She’ll come home. She’ll walk back in with that quiet little nod she always gives. Her eyes will find mine again. She’ll learn to forgive me.
She has to.
“She’ll come back,” I say loudly, daring the air not to believe me.
She has to.
She’s mywife.
And wives don’t just leave.
