That night, Sean returned home, broken, in silence. He went into the master bedroom.
Clara's closet was still there. He opened it slowly. The dresses were still hanging neatly. Colors he had once ignored. A shirt whose scent had faded, but not completely vanished. Shoes that were no longer worn, but still waiting.
Sean sat on the floor. His back leaned against the open wardrobe. His hand reached for a white blouse. He pressed it to his face, inhaling deeply—like a drowning man trying to remember the air.
"Clara…" his voice cracked.
It wasn't regret he felt. Rather, it was an explosive emotion fueled by his unfulfilled need.
He didn't want Clara to be happy without him. He wanted Clara to be his again. That obsession grew silently. It took root. It gnawed away.
And now, Sean was looking for something to vent his frustration on.
In the days that followed, Sean's voice grew sharper. His gaze grew emptier. Every move Moana made felt wrong to him.
Brewing coffee too late—wrong.
