You remember that day, don’t you? The one where everything changed. We were in that coffee shop on the corner, the one with the crooked awning and the barista who always got your order wrong. You loved their almond croissants anyway. You’d break off little pieces and let them melt on your tongue whilst I pretended to read the paper, watching you instead.
I noticed the way you looked at him. The one who held the door for you on the way out. Common courtesy, you said when I mentioned it. Don’t be silly. But I saw that smile, the one that made your nose wrinkle slightly. You used to smile at me like that.
I tried everything, you know. The flowers you mentioned once in passing, three years ago. Violets. Who remembers violets? I did. I remembered everything about you. The way you’d hum whilst cooking, always slightly off-key. That little squeal of delight when you opened your Christmas present, the cashmere scarf in the exact shade of green I’d seen you admire in the shop window. You wore it twice.
You stopped wearing it around February. Around the time you started staying late at work. Your colleague, you said. Just helping with a project. Drinks with the team. Each excuse arriving like clockwork, each one featuring another man hovering at the edges of your life, waiting.
I saw it in your eyes first. That gradual sadness, like watching light drain from a room. You’d look at me over dinner and I could see you weren’t really there anymore. You were somewhere else, with someone else. Or maybe you were just empty. Maybe I’d loved you so much I’d hollowed you out.
I watched you in the dark. Those sleepless nights when you’d turn away from me, curl into yourself like a question mark I couldn’t answer. I’d lie there, listening to you breathe, trying to memorise the rhythm before it changed forever. Before you left.
You were planning it. I knew. Little things. You cleared out that drawer in the bathroom, the one with your face creams and the perfume I bought you on our anniversary. You started checking your phone more. Looking away when I entered the room. Building distance between us, one small betrayal at a time.
I tried to talk to you about it. Do you remember? That night I made your favourite meal, lit those candles you picked out when we first moved in together. You cried. God, you cried. But you wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. You just kept saying you needed space, needed time, needed anything that wasn’t me.
I couldn’t let you go. You understand that, don’t you? You were everything. My reason for getting up in the morning. My excuse for being alive. Without you, there was just empty space where purpose used to be.
So I fixed it.
You’re so quiet now. You don’t look away anymore. No more checking your phone or making excuses about working late. No more crying. You just lie there, peaceful. Perfect. Mine.
I made sure you were comfortable. The blanket you liked, the one we bought together at that market. It’s wrapped around you properly. You always complained about being cold. Not anymore though. You used to be so warm, so tender. Now you’re just still.
They’ll wonder where you went. Your mother will call. Your colleagues will send emails. But they won’t think to look here, in the crawlspace beneath the kitchen. No one ever comes down here. It’s just us now. The way it should have been all along.
I talk to you every day. Tell you about my morning. About the weather. About that couple I saw in the coffee shop yesterday, the one breaking up over lattes. She was crying. He looked confused. Lost. I understood him completely.
I imagine you’re listening. You’re finally paying attention. You see how much I love you. How much I’ve always loved you.
I know you’d leave again if I opened the lid. But I won’t. Not ever.
You’re home now. You’re safe. You’re mine.
Until death, remember? That’s what we promised.
And I kept that promise.
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