If he loved me?
If he really loved me?
Shouldn’t he have fought for us?
Shouldn’t he have questioned it?
Shouldn’t he have come home and looked me in the eye and asked?
I grip the edge of the sink, my fingers tightening.
“Shit. Did I not fight for us?” I wonder, the question turning inward now.
Because that’s not fair either.
Not completely.
I mean, I just left.
I shake my head, water dripping down my face, mixing with the heat of the shower.
I left like I was guilty.
God.
That truth stings.
I didn’t stay.
Didn’t push.
Didn’t force the conversation.
I packed up what little I had left and ran.
Ran from the pain.
Ran from the humiliation.
Ran from the man I loved because I couldn’t stand the look in his eyes anymore.
The doubt.
The betrayal.
The way he looked at me like I was someone he didn’t recognize.
“I should’ve stayed,” I murmur.
Maybe.
Or maybe I was too broken to.
Too hurt.
Too damn tired of trying to prove something that should’ve never been questioned in the first place.
The water runs hotter, steam filling the room, wrapping around me like a cocoon.
