Chapter 78 — Shadows Between Us
Auri's POV
The morning sunlight spilled lazily through the curtains, warming the edges of the room, but it didn't reach me where I sat on the edge of the bed. I watched Dante move around the room silently, almost mechanical in the way he brushed his teeth, adjusted his tie, or straightened his suit jacket. Every little motion was sharp, precise… but somehow it felt cold.
I swallowed hard.
Something was different. Something was off.
I tried to ignore it at first, telling myself he had just returned from a long, exhausting business trip. The man he had been before—warm, playful, attentive—was there in body, but the soul I loved seemed… distant.
I took a deep breath, ran a hand over my arms, and forced myself to speak.
"Good morning," I said softly.
He turned slightly, offering a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Morning, Auri," he said, voice low and even.
I felt it immediately. The tension. The space between us, invisible but heavy. My chest tightened. I swallowed again.
The first sting
I tried to step closer, hoping that maybe a hug would bridge the distance, make it feel like him again. I wrapped my arms around him from behind, pressing my cheek to his back.
"Dante…" I whispered, soft, tentative.
He didn't hug me back right away. Instead, his hands froze at his sides. I could feel the faint shiver in his body—but not the warmth I had expected.
I pulled back slightly, forcing a smile. "You must be exhausted from the trip."
He exhaled, jaw tight. "Yeah. Long… trip."
"Yeah," I echoed softly. Something in the way he spoke—the clipped tone, the sharp edge—made my stomach turn.
I couldn't shake the thought: Why does it feel like he's pulling away from me?
Auri notices the cracks
During breakfast, he barely touched his food. He responded to my chatter with short answers, never looking at me directly. I laughed at one of Marcela's stories I'd retold from yesterday, hoping it would pull him out of the shadow he seemed trapped in.
Nothing.
He didn't laugh. Not even a smile. Just a quiet nod, eyes flickering to his phone on the counter every few seconds.
I wanted to snap. I wanted to demand that he tell me what was wrong. But I didn't. I didn't because part of me feared what I might hear.
Instead, I watched him. Studied him. Tried to find a thread of the Dante I knew beneath the tension, beneath the cold.
But every time I reached for him emotionally, he seemed to pull away—just slightly, just enough to make me stumble inside.
The subtle betrayals
Later, as we sat together in the living room, I tried again to bridge the gap. I leaned against him, resting my head on his shoulder.
His hand hovered near mine—almost touching—but he pulled back just enough.
I flinched inwardly.
"Dante…" I murmured, looking up at him.
"Hmm?" He glanced at me, expression unreadable.
"You're… tense. Distracted. Are you okay?"
He shook his head lightly. "I'm fine, Auri. Really."
But I wasn't convinced.
I caught a fleeting flicker in his eyes. Guilt? Regret? Or something darker?
And I hated that I was afraid of what I might find.
The frustration builds
Hours passed.
I tried small, ordinary moments to reconnect—touching his arm lightly, joking about Marcela's ridiculous theories, even teasing him about his constant need to straighten his tie.
But he kept retreating.
He would flinch when I brushed his shoulder.
He would stiffen when I tried to hold his hand.
He would look away when I smiled at him.
And all of this, subtle as it was, made my chest ache.
I hated that he could act so close, so intimate, yet make me feel miles away.
I hated that part of me wanted to cling to him anyway.
The tension of unmet need
That night, I tried again. We were in bed, soft light filtering through the blinds, the room warm and quiet. I shifted closer, curling into him, hoping he'd let me feel him, let me feel safe.
He stiffened.
"Dante…" I whispered, nudging his side.
He exhaled slowly, turning slightly away, keeping a careful distance.
My heart sank.
I felt rejected—not just physically, but emotionally. Every ounce of warmth he had shared with me the night before seemed to have vanished.
I tried to rationalize. "He's stressed. He's tired. Maybe this is temporary."
But it wasn't temporary.
It was real. It was here. And it hurt.
The small signs that terrify me
I noticed other things too.
A faint, unfamiliar scent clung to his suit jacket from earlier. Something floral, sophisticated… not like any perfume I had ever worn.
A slip of paper sticking from his briefcase. When I glanced, it seemed elegant, professional—like a business card—but with a delicate touch I didn't recognize.
He moved quickly whenever I came near his phone, his eyes darting, a small flinch when I laughed.
Every tiny gesture, every minor avoidance, screamed at me: something happened. Something he's hiding.
And a cold panic settled in my chest.
My fears and my love collide
I tried to be patient.
I told myself, maybe it's just work. Maybe he's just tired. Maybe I'm imagining things.
But when I curled against him that night, trying to share warmth, he kept a measured distance. He kissed my forehead, yes—but with hesitation, with a subtle tension I could feel against my skin.
And I hated it.
I hated that he could look at me, hold me, even speak gently, yet simultaneously build a wall that I couldn't climb.
I wanted him.
I wanted his warmth, his presence, his laughter, his love.
And I hated myself a little for needing it so desperately while he kept slipping further away.
The fracture in our connection
The next day, I tried again—walking him through Marcela's stories, laughing over the absurdity of pigeons attacking her in the park, the pink cake that tasted like "strawberry and trauma."
I hoped to bring him out of whatever fog he was in.
But his responses were minimal.
When I nudged him playfully, he flinched again.
When I tried to hold his hand, he subtly pulled away.
Even his laughter seemed measured, as though he was forcing it to exist.
I felt my own pulse tighten.
Was this the man I loved?
Or was he a stranger with my partner's face?
I wanted to scream. To demand answers. To rip the truth from him.
But I didn't.
Because I still loved him.
And because I feared the truth would hurt more than this aching uncertainty.
Auri's silent battle
I lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling.
I couldn't stop thinking about the subtle signs:
the cold distance
the hesitation in his touch
the strange perfume
the tiny paper I glimpsed
I didn't know what he was hiding.
And that terrified me.
It made me feel powerless.
It made me doubt myself.
And, though I hated admitting it, it made me angry—angry at him, angry at the situation, angry that the man I loved could make me feel so small and uncertain without saying a word.
The quiet moments of hope
And yet, there were moments… tiny moments… that reminded me of him.
When he accidentally laughed at one of Marcela's ridiculous tales.
When he exhaled a soft "I missed you" that sounded so fragile it broke me.
When his hand brushed against mine by accident, lingering too briefly to be reassuring but just long enough to remind me of why I loved him.
These moments, fleeting as they were, tormented me.
They made me cling to hope.
And they made me hate him even more.
The decision I make
By the end of that long, agonizing day, I made a choice.
I would continue to love him.
I would continue to trust him carefully, warily but I would also be alert.
I would watch.
I would notice.
I would remember.
Because I couldn't afford to be blindsided.
And yet, as I lay next to him that night, feeling the faint warmth of his side against mine, I whispered a silent plea:
Please… don't ruin this. Don't let whatever it is destroy what we have. I can survive anything… but I can't survive losing you to someone I don't even know exists.
And with that thought, I drifted into restless sleep.