Chapter 26
Staying in his parents’ house had started to feel less temporary and more like a pause I didn’t know how to end.
Not a retreat, not a decision, just a place where time slowed enough for my body to catch up with everything it had been through.
The guest room was quiet in that careful, padded way, the kind of quiet designed to keep sharp edges away, and I lay there staring at the ceiling, letting my thoughts circle without landing anywhere useful.
The room still smelled faintly like the candle Callum had picked out.
The fuzzy blanket was pulled up to my chest, warm without being heavy, and the light from the lamp was low and adjustable, kind instead of glaring.
Everything about the space felt intentional, like someone had thought carefully about how it might feel to exist here while fragile.
That was the problem.
I could feel the care in every part of it, in the softened lighting and the warmth layered without clutter, and it made my chest ache in a way that wasn’t simple gratitude.
If it had been careless, if it had been rushed or half-done, I could have dismissed it as a guilt-fuelled effort and let myself stay detached.
But this wasn’t sloppy. This was attention.
This was him noticing things I liked, things I needed, without me having to spell them out.
I rolled onto my side and stared at the shelves, still mostly empty except for the things that Callum had left, a couple of books Thalia had brought over and the game console sitting neatly beneath the television.
The new Animal Crossing game waited there, unopened, patient, like something that didn’t ask anything of me except time.
He hadn’t told me about any of it.
Not in a look-at-what-I-did way, not with expectations attached, not as some grand gesture meant to tip the scales back in his favour. He had just… done it, and stepped away. That restraint unsettled me more than anything else.
Because it meant he understood, at least now, that love didn’t entitle him to my reaction.
I let out a slow breath and stared around the room again, my chest tightening with a familiar mix of appreciation and grief.
My mind drifted, uninvited, to our house, to the cabinet I’d complained about for years, now fixed so smoothly it barely made a sound when opened.
To the way it had felt under my hand, solid and reliable, like it had always meant to work that way.
I thought about the pressed flower tucked into my book, the movie ticket stub framed, the note folded into my mug.
I thought about how well he knew me.
And then, just as inevitably, I thought about how thoroughly he’d missed me.
About the way he’d withdrawn when things stopped being easy, retreating inward instead of toward me.
About the nights I’d tried to talk and felt like I was interrupting something invisible, something more important than my fear or exhaustion.
About how I’d started swallowing my needs because it felt less painful than watching them go unmet.
Ashley crept into my thoughts like a bruise you only notice once you press on it.
How he hadn’t told me right away. How he’d tried to manage it on his own, as if protecting me meant deciding what I could handle instead of trusting me with the truth. How the messages had found me anyway, sharp and invasive, undoing me at a moment when my body was already barely holding together.
My throat tightened.
That night, the one I couldn’t stop circling back to, surfaced again, heavy and unwelcome.
The night my heart had gone wild, erratic and terrifying, unmistakably wrong.
The night I’d been afraid in a way that stripped everything else away, when all I wanted was reassurance and steadiness and someone who would sit with me until the fear eased.
And he hadn’t been there for that in the way I’d needed.
That was the thing I couldn’t get past.
His messages with Ashley, the secrecy, and the emotional distance all hurt me, but it was the timing that kept catching on the sharp edges of my mind.
The way his absence had coincided with the moment I’d been most vulnerable, when my body had been screaming for attention and safety, and I’d felt truly alone inside my marriage for the first time.
I squeezed my eyes shut, letting the ache settle where it always did.
He cared. I knew he did.
He cared enough to fix the small things I’d complained about, enough to remember tiny details from the beginning of us, enough to build me a space meant purely for healing without inserting himself into it.
He cared enough to step back when asked, to accept my distance without pushing or demanding reassurance.
But caring now didn’t erase the fact that he hadn’t cared in the ways I needed when it mattered most.
I stared at the ceiling again, my thoughts looping without resolution.
What did effort mean when it came after damage?
What did love look like once trust had fractures running through it?
I wasn’t trying to punish him. That wasn’t what this was. I didn’t want him groveling or making promises he couldn’t guarantee. I was just tired, tired of being the one who absorbed the impact while he learned the lesson.
The blanket shifted as I adjusted, and I let myself register how comfortable my body felt. My breathing was steady. My heart wasn’t racing. Physically, I was safe, and that mattered more than I wanted to admit.
Emotionally, I was still standing on uncertain ground.
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that the man who’d quietly done all of this would be the man who showed up consistently, not just after everything nearly collapsed.
I wanted to believe that this version of him would exist even when there wasn’t a crisis forcing clarity.
I wanted to live in a fairy tale where he was perfect and our love was true and everlasting.
But wanting something didn’t make it the truth.
I’d learned that lesson the hard way.
I lay there watching the ceiling fan turn slowly, something steady in a world that still felt fragile. I wasn’t angry the way I’d been before, sharp and reactive. This was quieter than that, heavier, a mix of longing and caution that left me exhausted in a different way.
Hope was dangerous.
Hope made you lean forward.
For now, all I could do was stay where I was, wrapped in warmth and unanswered questions, letting my thoughts circle until they wore themselves down. I didn’t know where Callum and I could go from here.
I only knew that eventually I would have to choose whether to move toward him or away, and that decision deserved more clarity than I had right now.
So I stayed still.
I focused on breathing and resting, letting the questions remain unanswered for a little while longer. Existing somewhere between gratitude and grief took enough effort on its own, and I could only hope that when clarity finally came, it wouldn’t ask for more than I had left to give.
I stayed there longer than I meant to, staring at the far wall, listening to the quiet hum of the house and the distant sounds of life moving on without waiting for me to catch up.
The knock at the door cut gently through the fog, not sharp enough to startle, but firm enough to pull me back into my body.
Thalia knocked once and then let herself in, the way she always did, calling my name down the hall before I could answer.
I pushed myself up slowly, giving my body a second to catch up, then padded out to meet her.
She took one look at my face and didn’t comment, which I appreciated more than any concern-heavy question.
“Shoes,” she said instead, lifting a paper bag in one hand. “I’m stealing you. Low effort. Doctor’s orders, probably.”
“I don’t remember my doctor prescribing kidnapping,” I said, but I was already reaching for my sneakers.
“Emotional support kidnapping,” she corrected. “Very cutting edge.”
The car ride was quiet at first, not awkward, just easy.
She didn’t blast music or fill the space with chatter, just let the hum of the road and the occasional stoplight do the talking.
I watched the scenery slide past, familiar streets blurring together, and felt something in my chest loosen a notch.
We ended up at a small cafe with mismatched chairs and a patio that caught the afternoon sun just right. Thalia ordered for both of us without asking, which was either rude or deeply thoughtful depending on the day. Today, it was the latter.
We sat outside, the air warm but not heavy, the kind of day that felt like it was holding its breath.
She stirred her drink, then glanced at me over the rim. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.”
“I know.”
“But if you do,” she added, “I’m here, and I won’t try to fix it.”
I huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re really committing to personal growth, huh?”
“Shocking, I know.”
I stared at my cup for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t even know what I’d say. It all just feels… unfinished.”
Thalia nodded like that made perfect sense. “Unfinished is better than broken.”
“Is it?” I asked.
She tilted her head. “Most of the time.”
We talked about small things first, the safe stuff. A show she’d started watching and immediately hated. A coworker who’d microwaved fish and nearly caused a mutiny. The fact that Shrek had no right being as emotionally effective as it was for a movie about an ogre.
“Fiona deserved better communication,” Thalia said firmly. “I stand by that.”
“You’re not wrong,” I said. “Though honestly, that tracks for me right now.”
She snorted, then sobered slightly. “Yeah.”
The conversation drifted, looping back on itself, touching closer to the edge without quite falling in. She asked how my body was feeling, and I answered honestly, which surprised both of us. I told her about the quiet moments, the way my heart felt steadier, the way my mind was lagging behind.
“And Callum?” she asked gently, like she was testing the water temperature.
I exhaled slowly. “He’s… trying.”
“That’s not nothing, but also not a lot. Trying is a low bar.”
“I know,” I agreed.
She watched me for a second, then said, “You know - you don’t have to figure it all out today. Everyone can be patient as you heal and figure your life out again.”
I blinked at her. “Since when did you get wise?”
“Trauma,” she said cheerfully. “Really broadens the skill set.”
I laughed, and the sound felt unfamiliar but good, like using a muscle I hadn’t stretched in a while.
We sat there longer than we planned, sunlight shifting, shadows stretching across the table. At some point, Thalia leaned back and said, “Do you want to talk about him, or do you want to talk about literally anything else?”
“Anything else,” I said immediately.
“Excellent. Then you’re helping me pick paint colors later, because I refuse to live with beige another year.”
“That’s a you problem,” I said. “But fine.”
When she dropped me back at the house, the sky was starting to dim, the air cooling just enough to make me shiver. I lingered in the driveway for a moment, reluctant to go back inside the quiet.
Thalia hugged me, careful and firm. “You’re doing okay,” she said into my hair. “Even when it doesn’t feel like it.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admitted.
“That’s okay too.”
I watched her drive off, then turned back toward the house. Inside, the guest room waited, warm and steady, unchanged from when I’d left. I kicked off my shoes and sank onto the bed, the blanket wrapping around me like it remembered me.
The day hadn’t given me answers. It hadn’t cleared anything up or made decisions easier. But it had given me something else, something quieter and maybe more important.
A reminder that I wasn’t alone in this pause.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling, my body tired in a way that felt earned rather than depleted. Tomorrow could wait. So could clarity. For now, it was enough to let the day settle, to let myself exist in the middle of it all without pushing forward or pulling away.
Just resting.
Just breathing.
Just being.