Chapter 27
The afternoon stretched long and quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed gently instead of sharply, and I found myself noticing small things just to stay anchored, the muted tick of the clock over the fireplace, the way sunlight pooled across the rug and stopped short of the couch.
I had spent most of the day resting, half dozing, half staring at nothing in particular, letting my body dictate the pace instead of fighting it.
Recovery had narrowed my world in strange ways. Time moved differently. Everything felt slower, heavier, more deliberate, and I’d learned to sit inside that instead of rushing past it.
When my mother-in-law told me Callum wanted to come by, she asked it gently, like she was already prepared to shut it down if I so much as hesitated.
She made it clear I didn’t owe him my energy, my time, or even a response, and that if I said no, that would be the end of it.
I sat with the question longer than I expected, staring at my hands, feeling the familiar tug between wanting distance and wanting answers.
In the end I nodded, slow and uncertain, not because I felt ready for anything, but because avoiding him entirely was starting to feel heavier than seeing him for a few minutes.
By the time the doorbell rang, I felt oddly calm.
Not settled, not resolved, just braced in a quiet way, like I’d lined myself up with whatever came next instead of leaning away from it.
I stayed where I was, hands folded loosely in my lap, listening to the low murmur of voices in the entryway before footsteps approached.
Callum didn’t arrive like someone making a case for himself.
He didn’t bring flowers and didn’t immediately launch into an apology speech that he rehearsed in the driveway.
Instead, he showed up when my mother-in-law told him he could, stood in the entryway for a moment like he wasn’t sure where to stand, and waited to be told where to sit.
We ended up on opposite ends of the living room couch. Close enough to talk without raising our voices, far enough that our knees didn’t touch.
Callum sat with his elbows on his knees, fingers laced together, eyes fixed on a spot on the rug like it might offer instructions. He looked thinner. Tired. Not dramatically so, just worn down around the edges, like someone who hadn’t been sleeping well and didn’t expect that to change.
“I’m not here to ambush you,” he said finally, voice low. “If you want me to leave, I will.”
I didn’t answer right away. I was busy noticing the absence of adrenaline, the lack of any spike or panic. Just a tight, steady awareness of where I was and what this was.
“You can stay,” I said. “For now.”
He nodded, accepting the conditional without comment.
“I want to work on things,” he said after a beat. He didn’t rush the words. “Between us. I know I fucked up. I know loving you didn’t stop me from hurting you. I’m not asking you to forgive me. I just needed to say that I want to try, if that’s something you even want to consider.”
There it was, plain, without any defense tucked inside it or any promise to be better without understanding what better actually meant.
I felt something loosen in my chest, just a fraction. Not relief. Permission.
“I need to talk,” I said. “And I need you not to interrupt me. Not to explain. Not to tell me what you meant or what you were trying to do. I need a chance to speak from my heart.”
“I won’t interrupt,” he said immediately.
“And I might not say it nicely.”
“That’s okay.”
I took a breath and let my gaze drift to the television screen, dark now, reflecting us faintly. Two people sitting too carefully. Two people who used to be everything, now just strangers.
“I felt abandoned,” I said. The word landed heavier than I expected, solid and undeniable. “It happened slowly, not in some dramatic, movie-scene way. It was gradual. You were there, technically. You came home. You answered when I spoke. But you weren’t with me.”
He didn’t move.
“It felt like I was always reaching and coming up just short,” I continued. “Like I kept adjusting myself, being quieter, being easier, needing less, because I could tell you didn’t have space for me. And every time I told myself it was temporary. That you were stressed. That things would settle.”
I swallowed, throat tight but steady.
“They didn’t.”
The word hung between us.
“I was already scared,” I said. “About my health. About my body doing things I couldn’t control. And instead of feeling like I had a partner to lean on, I felt like one more thing on your list. One more problem you didn’t have the capacity for.”
My hands were clenched in my lap. I hadn’t realized until I forced them to relax.
“I stopped telling you things,” I said. “Not because I didn’t want you to know, but because every time I tried, I felt… inconvenient. Like my fear was badly timed. Like my pain was interrupting something.”
He inhaled sharply, then held it. Still didn’t speak.
“My symptoms got worse,” I said. “And I’m not saying that’s your fault.
I’m not doing that. But the stress, feeling emotionally alone while my body was falling apart, it took something out of me.
I didn’t have the energy to advocate for myself medically with my doctors, and emotionally with you, all at the same time. ”
I laughed once, short and humorless. “Turns out isolation is not a great wellness strategy.”
His head dipped slightly, but he didn’t look away.
“I collapsed,” I said quietly. “And I couldn’t depend on you - my husband.”
That finally got a reaction. His shoulders tensed, like the words had landed physically.
“I wasn’t surprised when you didn’t answer my call because somewhere along the line, I stopped believing you’d show up in the way I needed,” I said. “And that realization hurt more than anything.”
The silence after that was thick, pressing in on my ears.
“I leaned on Thalia,” I continued. “On your parents. People who felt safe. People who didn’t make me feel like I had to minimize myself to be tolerable.”
I turned to look at him then, really look. His eyes were wet, unfocused, like he was staring through water.
“And then there was Ashley,” I said.
He flinched. Just a little.
“You didn’t tell me,” I said. “You let me exist in a reality where I was already doubting myself, already feeling like I was asking for too much, while someone from your past was reaching into our present. You took away my ability to consent to what was happening around me.”
My voice didn’t shake. That surprised me most of all.
“That made me feel stupid,” I said. “And small. And unsafe.”
I exhaled slowly, the air leaving my lungs like I’d been holding it for weeks.
“I don’t need you to explain why,” I said. “I’ve already imagined all the reasons. Stress. Guilt. Not wanting to make things worse. I get the logic. What I’m telling you is the cost.”
He nodded once, a small, broken movement.
When I stopped talking, the quiet rushed in to fill the space where my words had been. I felt wrung out but strangely lighter, like I’d set something heavy down without realizing how long I’d been carrying it.
Callum didn’t speak right away. He just sat there, absorbing it, letting it exist without trying to fix it. He stayed where he was, elbows still on his knees, hands still clasped together, like if he shifted even slightly the moment might fracture.
“I hear you,” he said.
That was it, stripped of qualifiers and softening language, without any apology layered on top to hurry me along.
“I hear you,” he repeated, slower, as if he were saying it to himself as much as to me. “And I believe you, and I can see how my actions and decisions hurt you over and over again.”
Something in my chest loosened, not relief exactly, but the absence of resistance. I hadn’t realized how braced I was for him to explain until he didn’t.
“I’m not going to defend myself,” he continued. “I know I fucked up, and all the excuses in the world will never change what I did.rdquo;
I let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting behind my sternum for days.
“I want to ask you something,” he said. “And you don’t owe me an answer if you don’t have one yet.”
I tilted my head, waiting.
“What do you need?&rdquo He asked.
Not what do you want. Not how do I fix this. Not how do I make you stay.
Need.
I stared at the wall across from us and let myself actually consider it.
“I need boundaries,” I said. “Clear ones. Boring ones. Ones we don’t negotiate every time emotions get high.”
“Okay,” he said. “Tell me.”
“No flirting,” I said first, because it was the easiest to name. “No romantic language. No loaded looks. I can’t process my feelings if I’m constantly being pulled into yours.”
“Understood.”
“I need honesty that isn’t delayed,” I continued. “Even when you think you’re protecting me. Especially then.”
His jaw tightened slightly at that, but he nodded again.
“And I need consistency,” I said. “Not grand gestures or some sort of proof-of-love moments. I need you to show up the same way on an average Tuesday as you would on the worst day of my life.”
“I don’t know where this ends,” I said. “I don’t know if it ends with us together. I need to be honest about that.”
“I know,” he said softly. “And I’m not asking you to decide now.”
There was a pause, softer now, less brittle.
“So,” I said, “if we try anything, it has to be slow. Painfully slow. Like rebuilding trust from the ground up, except the ground is unstable and we’re both aware of it.”
A corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Slow,” he repeated. “I can do slow.”
“Yes,” I said. “And if at any point it becomes too much, I need to be able to say stop without it becoming a negotiation.”
“You can,” he said. “I won’t argue.”
I studied him then, really studied him, not for reassurance but for alignment. His posture hadn’t shifted. His voice hadn’t sped up. He wasn’t leaning forward, wasn’t trying to close the space between us now that the conversation had softened.
It was strange, realizing how much that mattered.
“I need you to understand something else,” I said. “Even if we do everything right from here on out, it doesn’t erase what already happened. There are days I might be okay, and days I won’t be, and it won’t always line up with how hard you’re trying.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m not looking for linear progress.”
“That’s good,” I said dryly. “Because my nervous system did not sign up for a productivity plan.”
That earned a quiet, brief laugh from him, the kind that didn’t overstep.
“I love you,” he said then, and immediately added, “And I’m not saying that to sway you. I just don’t want to pretend it turned off because things got complicated.”
I felt the words land, heavy and careful.
“I’m not asking you to respond,” he continued. “I just want you to know that my feelings aren’t conditional on the outcome. I’m here to do the work because it’s right, not because it guarantees me anything.”
I sat with that, letting it echo without reacting to it.
“I don’t know what I feel yet,” I said honestly. “There are moments where I can see us trying again, and moments where I can’t imagine ever trusting you with my body or my heart the same way.”
“That makes sense,” he said. “I broke something fundamental.”
“Yes,” I said. “You did.”
He didn’t flinch this time.
We sat there like that for a while, two people in the aftermath of honesty, not rushing to fill the space with reassurance or next steps.
Eventually, Callum shifted and stood up slowly.
“I’ll go now and give you some time to think on things and to relax” he said.
At the door, he paused, hand on the frame, and looked back at me.
“Thank you,” he said. “For telling me the truth.”
I didn’t say you’re welcome. I didn’t say anything at all.