Alessia
The room is dark except for the soft blue light bleeding through the curtains. He suddenly wakes up, and walks towards the bathroom, and now his side of the bed is empty, still warm. I keep my eyes closed, my breathing even, steady, though every inch of my body is alert, poised like a hunter and prey all at once.
I hear the soft rustle of his footsteps across the hardwood floor. The creak of the wardrobe door. The unmistakable metallic slide of a drawer. He's moving with his usual precision.
That's fine.
I've trained myself for patience. It's what I was raised on. And even though I wanted to scream, to cry, to tear his face apart, I stayed still. I let the truth fester inside me like a slow-spreading poison.
He slips back into bed an hour later, and now I'm laying by the side. He doesn't touch me, or say anything. He didn't pull me against his chest either like he used to. And for once, I'm grateful.
