Fifteen
In the dim bedroom, Claire is barely breathing. The kids are asleep, but the silence is loud, echoing years of avoidance. She sits on the edge of the bed, knees pulled to her chest like they might hold her together. The weight of what she hasn’t said clogs her throat, sticky and choking.
The room is shadowed and close, smelling of baby lotion and unspoken fears. Her fingers twitch at the comforter, little half-starts before she finds the words. When she does, they fall sharp and jagged into the space between them.
“I’m not here, Nate,” she says, voice barely louder than a breath. Her shoulders curve inward, a slow collapse. She keeps talking, and he listens, the truth rolling out in thin, unsteady threads.
“I keep looking in the mirror, hoping to see myself again. But I still don’t know who’s looking back,” she admits, the barest crack in her voice.
She is present but unseen, and she waits for him to understand.
The room is too warm, almost suffocating. She shifts her legs down, feeling the cool touch of the hardwood floor beneath her feet. Their room, their bed, their life. The comforter feels scratchy, too hot where she grips it tightly. It matches their pillows—faded blue and so worn they don’t notice them anymore. Kind of like us, she thinks but doesn’t say. She fights the urge to fill the silence with empty words. To say never mind and forget I said anything. But she can’t, not this time.
“We used to be more than this,” she says, eyes fixed on a dent in the wall that no one will ever bother to paint over. “You and me.” Her voice wavers, each word hanging heavy between them. She swallows hard, pressing on.
“The first time I felt it—really felt it—was that dream I had. Remember?” Her fingers tighten around the comforter, seeking the warmth of something familiar. “It reminded me... it reminded me I was still in here somewhere.” She lets the implication settle, waits for it to sting.
Nate’s surprise shifts into something like understanding. She watches as his eyes change, realization crashing in. His lips part, but she talks faster, afraid to stop.
“I became someone’s mom, someone’s wife, but stopped being Claire. And I can’t, I don’t...” Her words snag on each other, tripping and desperate. Her shoulders curl as if bracing for a blow, or a hug, or something in between.
She looks away, pretending to fix the comforter where her knee has left an imprint. Her voice softens to a whisper. “I don’t even know who I am anymore. I don’t know who we are anymore.”
He’s silent, and in the silence she is sure he’s leaving. Not physically, not yet, but withdrawing further into the space she’s too scared to follow.
Her hands work a knot into the fabric, and she wonders how long before it comes apart again. “It feels like I’m disappearing,” she says, pressing the heel of her hand against her eye to stop the tears. “Sometimes it feels like I’m already gone.”
Nate’s face tightens, pain mixed with something else she can’t quite name. He opens his mouth, closes it again. She isn’t sure if it’s relief or heartache when he doesn’t interrupt. Maybe both. Her breath is shaky, coming out in little gasps as she holds herself together.
“You used to see me. I used to see me,” she says, almost to herself. “Now I’m right here, and I don’t even think you notice.” She glances up, just once, catching the look on his face. It’s not the blankness she’s dreaded but something raw and aching.
She wants to reach out and touch him, wants to see if he’s real or just a dream. But her hands stay buried in the fabric, fingers working at the knot she’s made. She pulls at it harder, unraveling the mess, wishing it were that simple.
“I never wanted to be gone,” she finishes, voice fraying at the edges. “I just wanted to be yours.”