ASTRID

The house felt different without him in it. It feels off and very empty. It was like walking into a room that used to feel alive and finding out it was all an illusion—a way to gaslight myself that everything I did that day was justifiable.

He only stayed away for five nights. Just five, where he stayed at his condo all alone, not replying to my messages.

I sent a short message. ‘Let me know when you’re home safe.’ It delivered but it was left on read. No reply. Not even a period.

It didn’t hurt. No.

It was the days that followed that truly hurt. He came home late when I was already asleep, and left early before I could even wake up and talk to him. His car would be gone before sunrise.

One morning, I went down to the driveway in my night dress, only to find out he left twenty minutes earlier–without saying a word. The staff didn’t ask why I was dressed like that. Maybe they knew better than I did.

At night, I’d hear our bedroom quietly unlock, a small window of light just enough to check if I was awake. Then he would close it before I could even fully wake up. Every night he went straight to the guest room.

Our walk-in closet still smelled like his perfume. But all the suits he wore that week, they were gone from our room. They were hanging in the guest room now, lined perfectly. Even his toothbrush had moved.

That, somehow, broke me more than him being gone.

We were living in the same space now, breathing the same air, and yet I’d never felt further from him.

We used to have breakfast with the curtains wide open, sunlight on our dining table, his hand caressing my thigh. Now, the curtains stayed drawn. The chef still made the same breakfast set I liked but it didn’t taste the same. Last time, he didn’t leave early but he never sat down to eat. Just took a black coffee and walked out without even acknowledging my presence.

I didn’t know what my ‘no’ meant to us. I hadn’t packed my bags. I should’ve. I thought about it each morning. But the thought of leaving him... it made me sick.

I know I love him. I just didn’t know why I hesitated when he asked. Now I’m questioning myself if being hurt was enough reason to hurt him back.

He booked another flight to Singapore. I saw the itinerary by accident. Just a one-day trip. The private jet left that night. He didn’t tell me, he didn’t even leave a note or a text.

I honestly didn’t know what to do at this point. I wasn’t even sure if my ‘no’ ended our relationship. I feel like I have no right to decide on our status–maybe it would be better if he decided for us.

So I waited. For something. For anything. Maybe for him to speak, for him to clarify what we were. I stayed even if I was already getting used to his cold treatment.

I thought about leaving more times than I could count. One afternoon, I even packed a small suitcase and set it by the door. I didn’t tell anyone. I just needed to know if I could do it—if I could walk out without looking back. But I hesitated too long. And when I returned to the room hours later, the suitcase was gone. My dresses were hanging neatly again in the closet, like they’d never left. No confrontation. No note. Just a silent message: stay. And somehow, that was lonelier than if he had begged me to go.

But then tonight, something shifted.

I didn’t remember falling asleep. But when I stirred, the bed was no longer mine alone.

There was a presence. It was quiet, yet unbearably close. His scent hit me first, something faintly familiar, like cinnamon and cedarwood, now diluted into the cotton of his shirt.

I felt the bed dip slightly. Then a hand, light yet unsure, lifted the blanket at my hip. My breath hitched. It was barely even a sound, but he must have heard it, because his hand froze.

And then I felt his fingertips graze my side, carefully brushing aside the hem of my shirt. He was cautious, like he thought touching me might break me. His fingers found the bruise. The one I got when I slipped down the office stairs two days ago.

His thumb hovered above it, not quite making contact. Then I heard him exhale, like the breath had been punched out of him. “Shit,” he whispered.

I didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure if I should.

But still, his voice broke the silence again. It was low and raw, like he hadn’t used it in days. Well, not on me. He didn’t use his voice on me because he kept avoiding me.

“You should’ve told me it was this bad,” he whispered.

My throat was dry, but I found my voice. “You weren’t exactly around for me to tell.”

He flinched, then stilled. Silence enveloped us again. And then there was a deep sigh. “I still would’ve wanted to know,” he said.

I finally turned, slowly, aching a little from the bruise. He didn’t help me, didn’t reach for me, but he watched me carefully.

Our eyes met in the dark. I couldn’t read him fully. He looked tired. His eyes were bloodshot, and he hadn’t shaved in days.

“You’re being avoidant,” I said quietly.

“You said no,” he replied dryly.

Simple. I should have expected it.

My lip trembled. I wasn’t sure how to respond to what he just said. He looked down at the bruise again. “It’s starting to heal,” he murmured. “That color means it’s fading.”

“You googled it?” I asked, my voice low, unsure if I had the right to talk to him like this.

His gaze flicked to mine. “Yeah.” He paused. “Didn’t know what else to do.”

The pause shouldn’t have meant anything. The words shouldn’t have made my chest tighten. But they did because how could he still care for me after what I did?

“How did you even notice I had a bruise?” I whispered. “I wasn’t going to tell you...”

But he didn’t answer me. He didn’t even look at me. Instead, he lay down. “Are you okay now?” he said, his voice quieter than before.

I nodded instantly even though my eyes were still on him, waiting. Then I looked away.

A quiet moment passed. My heart pounded from the closeness and from the ache of him being near and unreachable. I felt his fingers ghost over my ribs again, careful and slow.

He didn’t speak when I winced. Just kept his hand there, warm and steady.

“I’m okay,” I said, even though I wasn’t.

He nodded like he didn’t believe me but wouldn’t press. “You need to rest.”

He began to pull away but I caught his wrist, gently, the way he used to catch mine when I rolled over in my sleep. “I…” I said, unsure of what I wanted.

His breath caught and he stared at me. “What?” he asked coldly.

I looked up at him, eyes burning. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t answer—he didn’t even nod. He just slowly lay back down beside me. Not touching, but close. So close yet so far.

I faced the ceiling. He did too. “Art?”

He didn’t move, but I knew he was awake. A second passed. Two. Three. Four. Five. Then finally, he answered. “Hmm?” It was flat, barely a sound.

“I… I was wondering if you wanted to talk.”

Silence. It was the kind of silence that grows heavier the longer it stays. The unbearable kind.

When he finally spoke, it wasn’t cruel. But it was final.

“No,” he said.

That was it. No explanation. No hesitation.

I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the weight of that answer settle into my chest. “Okay,” I whispered.

I wanted to say more. That I didn’t mean to hurt him. That saying ‘no’ didn’t mean I didn’t love him. That I was confused too. I was just hurt. But what good would that do if he didn’t want to hear it?

I turned onto my back, away from him, blinking past the sting in my eyes. The silence stretched again. That familiar, aching stillness that was consuming me alive. I thought that was the end of it.

The bed felt heavier now that he was staying in the bedroom. There was supposed to be warmth in his presence. But all I could feel was the sheer coldness of the space between us.

I clung to the bedsheet and buried myself deeper into it, hoping it would keep me warm. But still, I felt empty. I wanted to talk to him. To explain why I said no. But it seemed like he had shut himself off from me completely. And I didn’t want to make things worse by pushing him. I had already seen him angry, and I couldn’t bear to replay that moment again.

I didn’t even notice it at first, but tears had started streaming down my face. They slipped out before I could stop them. Then came the sobs, uncontrollable, as if my body had decided for me that this was the only way to ease the pain.

I felt the bed shift. A hand brushed over my shoulder, and I instinctively flinched at the sudden touch. I cried even harder. I didn’t even understand why. Maybe it was the relief of contact, or the ache of being seen again.

I felt his chest press gently against my back, and then his arms wrapped around me. He didn’t say anything. He just held me, resting his chin on my shoulder.

I wiped my tears, shaking my head. “Don’t... don’t mind me,” I said, voice trembling. “It’s just... my bruise hurts.”

A lie. Or maybe just an excuse.

Silence filled the room again, but he stayed still and close. I felt unworthy of his love right now, but I couldn’t deny it either. So I let him hold me for a little longer.

“Pause?” I whispered, barely above a breath. “Just for a bit. No talking. Just hold me a little longer. Would it be selfish?”

He didn’t move. Seconds passed. Long ones.

“Just sleep,” he said softly, and he hugged me tighter.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, my body slowly giving in to his warmth despite everything we left unsaid. His arms didn’t tremble, but I could feel the restraint in the way he held me. It was like he was still trying to protect me, even from himself. There were no whispered reassurances, no promises, just the sound of our breathing. It was all uneven, tired, and heavy from a fight neither of us had the strength to finish.

His hand stayed against my stomach. He didn’t stroke or squeeze or trace my skin the way he used to. He just held on.

And slowly, my tears dried. I was still hurting, and I knew he was too. But we laid there in that silence, too close to be okay, too distant to fix it tonight. I closed my eyes with the weight of his arm around me and the ache still in my chest. If this was all we could have for now, I’d take it. Just for tonight. Just until sleep pulled us both under.

I stirred awake to the faint rustle of sheets. It was still dark, maybe just a little past three. The room felt warmer now, but maybe it was just because his warmth still clung to the blankets.

I didn’t move at first. I kept my eyes closed, just listening. There was the shift of weight on the mattress, the quiet drag of breath, and the hesitation. Then came the slow retreat of his arm, the one he’d left draped around my chest in his sleep.

He was trying to pull away. Not with a jolt or force. He pulled away like he didn’t want to wake me. Like he couldn’t stand to face me when he left.

But I was already wide awake now. I reached for his hand and caught it gently before he could fully slip away.

 “Where are you going?” I asked, my voice hoarse. I could still feel the dried tears on my cheeks.

He froze. His body tensed behind me, like I’d caught him doing something wrong.

“Work,” he muttered after a second. “Early meeting.”

He was lying. Or at least, not telling the full truth. He’d been leaving like this for the past few days. Before the sunrise. Before I could explain. Before I could even ask if he was still angry with me.

“Right now?” I pressed, turning slightly to face him. “It’s still early.”

Art sighed, his hand still caught in mine. “I need to beat the traffic.”

“It’s like you’re not the CEO of your own company,” I murmured. “You were going to sneak out again, weren’t you?”

Silence.

He didn’t deny it.

I sat up slowly, clutching the blanket to my chest. “Why do you keep leaving like this?”

Art looked at me, shadows under his eyes, hair tousled from sleep. There was a flicker of guilt in his expression—not enough to apologize, but enough to say he wasn’t proud of it either.

“I thought you were asleep,” he said softly.

“That’s not an answer.”

His jaw tensed. “Estelle...”

I waited, but he didn’t finish the thought. He just looked at me like I’d made things worse by catching him in the act. Like being seen made it real. Made the weight of us heavier.

I held his wrist tighter, not to trap him, just to delay the part where he slipped through my fingers again. “Don’t you want to talk?” I asked again, quieter this time.

He looked away. “I don’t,” he said immediately, cutting me off before I could even finish.

His other hand gently pried mine off his wrist, then he stood up. Without another glance, he walked straight to the door.

Not again. I couldn’t take another stretch of silence between us—not another night of unanswered calls or pretending we were fine when everything was falling apart. So I panicked. My heart beat faster than I could think, and before he could walk out that door, the words slipped out of me, sharp and desperate.

“Can’t you be an adult and just take ‘no’ for an answer?“

I knew it was out of line. But I’d rather argue and say everything I’ve been holding in than let him escape this conversation again.

He stopped in his tracks. I swallowed hard thinking he was angry at me, but then he turned. His face was unreadable at first, but the closer he walked back to me, the more I saw it—the quiet devastation in his eyes.

“What did you just say?” he asked, voice low, tone sharp but hollowed out.

“Don’t you want to talk?” I asked again, almost breathless and desperate, which only made his brow furrow deeper.

“Why do you keep pushing for a conversation?” he asked, frustration barely contained. “Whenever you weren’t ready, I gave you space. I didn’t push. I backed off. Why can’t I have that too?”

My chest tightened.

”It’s already been days.” I said, my lips slightly trembling. “You’re being avoidant and you’re making it harder for the both of us.”

”Can you at least tell me what we are now?” I continued. “Do you want me to leave? Do you want to erase me from your life because of my answer?”

He let out a bitter breath and shook his head slowly. “Honestly, Estelle… I don’t know,” he said, his voice breaking in places he didn’t want it to. ”I can’t let you go, but I can’t stand you either.”

He sighed before speaking again. "I’m not the kind of person who ends things on impulse. What you did hurt me more than I expected. But I love you. I still do. That’s why I had your suitcase unpacked again, why I still come home to the same house, the same silence. I need more time, and I was hoping you’d understand that.”

“Love…” I began softly. “Saying no to the proposal didn’t mean I stopped loving you—“

“When I said you love me, you hesitated,” he cut in, voice cold.

Guilt crept in before I could speak. The day he proposed, I was a mess. Emotionally wrecked and overwhelmed by everything I had just found out. I couldn’t just pretend none of it existed. Even now, it’s hard to look at him without remembering what I wish I never knew.

He rubbed his temples and frustratedly ran his finger through his hair. “I don’t know what we are. I don’t know if there’s anything left to hold on to. I don’t know if I still have any self-respect for staying when I feel like I’m always the one begging to be chosen.”

”But you’re not begging,” I said, almost to myself. ”Now let me explain so you would—“ I said but he interrupted once more.

“I want you to stay. I want you to stay more than anything,” he continued, his hands clenched by his sides. “But it’s easier to avoid you. It’s easier to keep pretending you’re just in the other room than sleep next to you and feel the distance you don’t even have to say out loud.”

“I’m not avoiding you because I can’t take ‘no’ for an answer,” he said quietly, then looked up at the ceiling as if forcing back whatever emotion was clawing at his throat. “I’m avoiding you because I don’t know how to look at you without wondering what I did wrong. What changed. Why someone who once looked at me like I was her whole world suddenly couldn’t say yes.”

He swallowed hard.

“I asked you in the gentlest ways I could,” he said, barely holding himself together. “I planned that Amanpulo trip because I knew you weren’t ready to be asked outright. I know you said you wanted to get married at thirty, and I respected that. But there were obvious signs of you wanting to marry me. I thought maybe… just maybe… you were already sure of me like I’ve always been sure of you.”

He laughed bitterly under his breath. “Maybe I saw what I wanted to see. Maybe I read too much into every soft look, every promise. Maybe I held on too tightly because I thought we were on the same page.”

“I was already sure,” I whispered. “I just… I got… But—”

“And that’s what hurts,” he cut in, eyes shining, but no tears falling. “That you were sure once. And then something made you change your mind.”

He looked at me like he didn’t want to blame me, but didn’t know how not to. He turned around again, this time slower, more tired.

Before he walked out of the room, he said something that broke me.

“So no, I don’t want to talk about it,” he muttered, jaw clenched. “You said what you needed to say. I heard your ‘no’ loud and clear.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even look at me. But the finality in his tone cut sharper than any argument ever could.

Now I wasn’t even sure if I had the right to feel this kind of pain… because I was the one who hurt him most.