That afternoon, her father came home early from work. He found Lilian sitting on the back porch, staring into the gray horizon. “He left again?” he asked. She nodded. He stood beside her for a moment, then said, “Sometimes staying is the braver thing. But sometimes leaving is.” She didn’t reply.
That night, her phone buzzed while she was brushing her hair. A text. Her heart leapt before she even looked. “I miss you.” No name. Just those three words.
She stared at the screen, her throat tightening. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind—Love doesn’t make you afraid of footsteps in your own hallway. Her fingers trembled as she typed back: You left. Then she deleted it. She placed the phone on the nightstand, turned off the light, and lay down.
At midnight, her phone buzzed again. Another message. “I’m outside.” Lilian sat up, her pulse quickening. She went to the window, hesitated, then pulled the curtain back. The yard was empty. Only the wind moved, whispering through the trees.
Her mother’s voice called softly from down the hall, “Lilian? Are you alright?” “Yes,” she lied. “Just couldn’t sleep.” But she didn’t sleep after that. She sat on the bed until dawn, staring at her phone, half terrified it would ring again—and half terrified it wouldn’t.
By morning, she had made a decision she couldn’t explain. She packed her things quietly, kissed her mother’s cheek, and said, “I need to go home.” Her mother didn’t ask which home she meant.
The road back was longer than before. When she reached the driveway, she saw Ken’s car parked outside, dust on the hood, as if it had been waiting for her. The door was unlocked. Inside, the air smelled faintly of him—of aftershave, cigarettes, and rain.
On the kitchen table sat a note, written in his familiar hand: “I knew you’d come back.” Lilian stood there for a long time, the words pressing against her chest like hands. She looked up at the wall. The wedding photo was gone.
The first thing she noticed was the smell. Not of him exactly, but of something unfamiliar that had found its way into their room — faint cologne, sharp and woody, not Ken’s. It lingered on the sheets, in the air, as though someone had been standing there only moments before she entered.
Ken was home. That much was true. His jacket hung on the chair by the window, his shoes were kicked off by the door. The lamp on his side of the bed was on, throwing a tired amber glow across the room. He was lying there, eyes closed, his breathing deep but uneven — the way a man breathes when he’s pretending to sleep.
Lilian stood at the door watching him, unsure whether to speak or let the silence finish speaking for her. “How long have you been back?” she finally asked. Ken didn’t open his eyes. “A while.” “You didn’t call.” He exhaled through his nose. “Didn’t think I needed to.” “You disappeared for two weeks.” “Did I?”
He rolled onto his back, eyes still shut, as though the truth was something he could dodge by not looking at it. “I just needed time.” “Time for what?” “To think.” It was the same answer every time. To think. About what, he never said.
Lilian sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under her weight, and for a moment, they were close enough to feel each other’s warmth but not each other’s hearts. “I dreamed of you while you were gone,” she said quietly. “Good dreams?” She hesitated. “I don’t know.”
Ken finally turned toward her, eyes open now — tired, bloodshot, but soft. He reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. “You worry too much.” “You disappear too much.” He smiled, faintly. “Maybe that’s how we balance each other.”
The words stung more than comforted her. Still, she didn’t move away when his hand slipped behind her neck, guiding her closer. His lips touched hers gently at first, the way a man apologizes without words. She kissed him back, but the feeling was different — colder, mechanical, like they were acting out something that used to be sacred. When he pulled away, he whispered, “You still love me, right?” “Do you?” she asked. He didn’t answer.
That night, her phone buzzed while she was brushing her hair. A text. Her heart leapt before she even looked. “I miss you.” No name. Just those three words.
She stared at the screen, her throat tightening. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind—Love doesn’t make you afraid of footsteps in your own hallway. Her fingers trembled as she typed back: You left. Then she deleted it. She placed the phone on the nightstand, turned off the light, and lay down.
At midnight, her phone buzzed again. Another message. “I’m outside.” Lilian sat up, her pulse quickening. She went to the window, hesitated, then pulled the curtain back. The yard was empty. Only the wind moved, whispering through the trees.
Her mother’s voice called softly from down the hall, “Lilian? Are you alright?” “Yes,” she lied. “Just couldn’t sleep.” But she didn’t sleep after that. She sat on the bed until dawn, staring at her phone, half terrified it would ring again—and half terrified it wouldn’t.
By morning, she had made a decision she couldn’t explain. She packed her things quietly, kissed her mother’s cheek, and said, “I need to go home.” Her mother didn’t ask which home she meant.
The road back was longer than before. When she reached the driveway, she saw Ken’s car parked outside, dust on the hood, as if it had been waiting for her. The door was unlocked. Inside, the air smelled faintly of him—of aftershave, cigarettes, and rain.
On the kitchen table sat a note, written in his familiar hand: “I knew you’d come back.” Lilian stood there for a long time, the words pressing against her chest like hands. She looked up at the wall. The wedding photo was gone.
The first thing she noticed was the smell. Not of him exactly, but of something unfamiliar that had found its way into their room — faint cologne, sharp and woody, not Ken’s. It lingered on the sheets, in the air, as though someone had been standing there only moments before she entered.
Ken was home. That much was true. His jacket hung on the chair by the window, his shoes were kicked off by the door. The lamp on his side of the bed was on, throwing a tired amber glow across the room. He was lying there, eyes closed, his breathing deep but uneven — the way a man breathes when he’s pretending to sleep.
Lilian stood at the door watching him, unsure whether to speak or let the silence finish speaking for her. “How long have you been back?” she finally asked. Ken didn’t open his eyes. “A while.” “You didn’t call.” He exhaled through his nose. “Didn’t think I needed to.” “You disappeared for two weeks.” “Did I?”
He rolled onto his back, eyes still shut, as though the truth was something he could dodge by not looking at it. “I just needed time.” “Time for what?” “To think.” It was the same answer every time. To think. About what, he never said.
Lilian sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under her weight, and for a moment, they were close enough to feel each other’s warmth but not each other’s hearts. “I dreamed of you while you were gone,” she said quietly. “Good dreams?” She hesitated. “I don’t know.”
Ken finally turned toward her, eyes open now — tired, bloodshot, but soft. He reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. “You worry too much.” “You disappear too much.” He smiled, faintly. “Maybe that’s how we balance each other.”
The words stung more than comforted her. Still, she didn’t move away when his hand slipped behind her neck, guiding her closer. His lips touched hers gently at first, the way a man apologizes without words. She kissed him back, but the feeling was different — colder, mechanical, like they were acting out something that used to be sacred. When he pulled away, he whispered, “You still love me, right?” “Do you?” she asked. He didn’t answer.
