Chapter Forty Seven
Camille
Eventually, Hunter distancing himself became enough that everything in my world tilted. And it came at the worst time, too, because my own life hadn’t slowed down.
I was tired. Bone-deep tired. But his presence had made that weight feel lighter, manageable even. He’d been steady, grounding, the one bright thing at the end of long days.
He’d still show up, but he’d leave earlier. His texts came slower. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was there, but I felt him slipping, like sand through my fingers. Was I too much? Was it the kids? Was it my ex bringing disruption? Or was it something else, something he wasn’t telling me?
Instead of letting these thoughts consume me, I decided to take action.
I reached out to Dani and set up a time to meet.
Over lunch, I opened up to her about my fears and confusion, hoping her perspective might shed some light on the situation.
I also booked an appointment with my therapist, realizing that I needed professional guidance to navigate my own emotional maze.
These steps felt small but significant, a way to regain some sense of control in what felt like a spiraling situation.
The not-knowing was worse than anything.
I’d survived other exits. But with Hunter… I didn’t want to just survive this.
I wanted to fight for it.
But how do you fight what you can’t name?
The silence came slowly, like a door easing shut.
At first, it was just a longer pause before he replied.
A text I’d send in the morning that he wouldn’t answer until lunch.
Then it became whole afternoons. I’d type something like How’s your day?
and watch the little “delivered” icon sit there, staring back at me.
Hours passed before a reply, and sometimes, there wasn’t one at all.
The phone calls dwindled, too.
Where he used to call me every night, sometimes twice in a day just to hear my voice, now it was every other night. Then every few days. When he did call, his voice sounded tired and distracted, as if he were talking through a fog.
I told myself not to overthink it. That he was busy.
That work was heavy. That maybe he just needed space.
But at two in the morning, when the twins were finally asleep, and Zeke was snoring down the hall, I’d sit with the glow of my phone in my hand, staring at a blank screen, wondering if I’d done something wrong.
Each unanswered text twisted the knife deeper.
They pulled me back into old stories that I swore I’d stop telling myself that people always left, that I was easier to walk away from than to stay with.
And still, every time his name lit up my phone, even after hours of silence, my heart jumped like it always had.
Because even as I doubted, even as I hurt, I wanted to believe he wasn’t like the others.
I wanted to believe he’d come back. But by the end of the second week, the silence wasn’t subtle anymore. It was obvious.
I’d send him pictures of the kids like Zeke showing off his block tower, the twins covered in applesauce, and where he used to respond in seconds with look at them! or a dozen laughing emojis, now it was hours. Sometimes, there was no reply at all.
The calls were worse.
I found myself clutching the phone at night, waiting for it to ring, replaying old conversations just to remind myself what his voice sounded like when he was present. But when it did ring, once, maybe twice a week, he sounded distant, his words clipped, laughter forced.
And still I clung to those scraps because between work at the doctor’s office, rushing to pick up the kids, late-night studying for exams, and exhaustion pressing down on me like a weight, his presence had been my one soft place to land.
Now that softness was gone. The twins hadn’t noticed yet; too little to understand. But Zeke did.
One night, while I was cleaning up toys, he looked up and asked, “Why doesn’t Hunter come over as much?”
The question hit like a gut punch. I smiled too quickly, smoothing his curls. “He’s just busy, baby.”
But as Zeke nodded, already distracted by his toy car, I felt the lie settle heavy in my chest. Because I didn’t know if Hunter was busy… or if he was leaving.