Held in Silence

The silence in the gallery never really left. It followed us home like fog — thick, clinging, and quietly suffocating.

Richard hadn't said anything in the car. Not a word. Just stared out the window as if the night might offer answers I never would.

I didn't ask either. Maybe I should have. But I was tired of asking.

When we got back to the estate, he went straight to his study. I stood in the hall a minute longer, unsure whether to follow or disappear upstairs. In the end, I just walked away. He didn't call after me. Of course he didn't.

The next morning, the sun spilled too bright through the window.

I waited for a knock on the door. For his voice. For… something.

But there was nothing.

Downstairs, his chair at the table was empty. A pot of untouched coffee. My plate prepared the same way as always — fruit on the left, toast on the right. But everything tasted like paper.

I didn't finish breakfast.

The messages started after noon.

Evan: I know I shouldn't have called. I just couldn't stop thinking about you.

Evan (again): You looked different the other day. Not just your hair. You looked… heavier, like you're carrying something alone again.

I turned my phone face-down on the table.

He had no right. Not after what he did. Not after leaving without looking back.

And yet, a small, bitter part of me felt something sting behind my eyes.

I left the house without telling anyone.

Not to run — just to breathe.

There was an outreach center Richard's company sponsored downtown, a community space that offered evening tutoring and art workshops. I hadn't been there in weeks, not since the marriage. But Mira had once taken me there, and something about the way she spoke to the children stayed with me.

When I walked in, I was greeted with surprise — and then warmth. The children were loud, chaotic, beautifully unfiltered. One little girl with bright pink clips in her braids tugged my hand and said, "You look like a princess." I laughed so hard I nearly cried.

No one here cared who I was married to. They only cared whether I showed up.

Mira arrived halfway through the session, a stack of coloring sheets under one arm and a half-eaten sandwich in the other.

"You vanished," she said, nudging me with her elbow. "The estate swallow you whole?"

"Almost," I muttered. "But I'm clawing my way out."

She studied me quietly for a moment, then looked away.

"You can talk to me, you know. If something's going on."

I didn't know how to answer. Saying it out loud would make it too real. That I wanted something from Richard and hated myself for it. That Evan was circling again like a moth to something already burned.

"I'm fine," I lied.

I stepped outside to take a call later, only to find a text.

Evan: Please. Just coffee. Five minutes. You deserve at least that much.

I stared at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard. I typed and erased a dozen replies.

In the end, I just powered the phone off and slid it back into my coat.

Behind me, the wind shifted.

Richard's car was parked at the curb when I returned to the estate. I hadn't expected him to be back yet.

As I stepped through the front gate, I saw him standing just inside the foyer, coat still on, a document folder in one hand.

He looked at me. No expression. No welcome.

Just a glance that hovered a little too long.

"I didn't know you'd be out," he said finally.

"I didn't know I needed to ask."

Something flickered in his eyes. Not anger. Not quite disappointment either. Just that familiar restraint I'd come to expect.

There was a long pause. Then he asked, "Where were you?"

"A place that doesn't expect answers I'm not ready to give."

I thought he'd push back. But he didn't. He just nodded once and walked past me, toward the stairs.

That night, I sat by the window in the room that was technically mine. Not his. Not ours. Just… mine.

I thought of all the ways I'd tried to reach him.

Softness. Patience. Understanding.

And still, I stood on the outside of a house I lived in.

I opened my journal.

"I think I'm falling for him."

That was the last thing I'd written, just days ago. A single, reckless confession.

Tonight, I didn't add anything.

I just closed the book and placed it back inside the drawer.

The next morning, there was a note waiting for me on my desk. 1

Meeting at 10. Conference room. — R

I almost crumpled it. Another cold reminder. Another transaction.

But when I turned the paper over, I found a second line scribbled hastily on the back:

You looked happier yesterday.

I stared at it for a long time, my chest too tight to breathe properly.

He'd noticed.

He always noticed. He just didn't know what to do with the things he saw.

I folded the note and slipped it into my coat pocket.

Then I sat down at the vanity, fixed my hair, and told myself this:

I would not wait anymore.

Not for Evan.

Not for Richard.

Not even for the version of myself I used to be.

From now on, I would move forward — with or without them.