The Confrontation
738 Words
Laura
The soup boiled over as I stood motionless, watching the door instead of the stove.
It wasn’t about dinner.
It hadn’t been for weeks.
It was about the silence that filled our home like gas—odorless, invisible, and just as deadly.
David had been late again. Always late. And when he came home, it was with the same detached expression, the same smell of cold air and old secrets clinging to his coat.
When he finally walked in, I didn’t greet him. I just stared at the floor like I might find the pieces of myself I kept losing in this marriage.
“You’re late,” I said. My voice didn’t tremble. It was too tired to.
“Work,” he replied, like that word was supposed to excuse the way he’d been ghosting through our lives.
I turned off the stove.
He didn’t even ask what was for dinner.
“It’s always work, isn’t it?” I muttered, gripping the dish towel like it might tether me.
He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I spun around. “It means you’re never here, David! You weren’t here when we were supposed to celebrate our first month together. You weren’t here after our first night as husband and wife. You’re just… not here!”
There it was.
The truth. Small and sharp.
David’s eyes darkened. “You knew what this marriage was, Laura. Don’t act like I promised you anything I didn’t deliver.”
“No,” I said, stepping closer. “I knew what you said it was. But I thought maybe… maybe if I stayed, if I tried, you’d see me. Want me.”
He crossed his arms, but his eyes flickered—fear, maybe.
“Maybe you thought wrong,” he said quietly. Cruelly.
“And maybe you’re just a coward,” I snapped.
His face hardened. “You want honesty? That first night—”
I flinched before the words left his mouth.
He saw it.
Still, he said it.
“You were a virgin. And it showed. It was… fine, but it wasn’t exactly—”
“Stop.” My voice cracked, and tears stung my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. “Just stop.”
Silence.
Like static right before a building explodes.
I took a step back. My body trembled, but my voice didn’t c***k when I said, “You don’t get to humiliate me just because you can’t feel anything.”
“Laura—”
“No,” I cut him off, my voice steadier now. “You told me this marriage wasn’t about love, and I accepted that. But you don’t get to humiliate me, to make me feel like I’ll never be good enough for you.”
I turned to walk away, but he grabbed my wrist, his grip firm but not painful.
He blinked. And for a moment—just a flicker—I saw something behind the mask.
Guilt.
Regret.
“I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I just… I don’t know how to let you in.”
It would’ve been easier if he’d stayed cruel.
But now—now he looked lost.
He stepped forward, his voice lower. “I don’t hate you, Laura. I hate that you might actually matter to me.”
That did it.
The final thread snapped.
Because for the first time, I saw the truth behind all the tension, all the emotional warfare: he was afraid.
Of needing me.
Of being needed.
I didn’t speak. I just reached for his hand.
And when he didn’t pull away, I kissed him.
This time, it wasn’t cold or rehearsed. It wasn’t a transaction.
He touched me like someone afraid the moment would vanish. His fingers trembled. His breath hitched when I whispered his name. And for the first time, when we came together, it didn’t feel like an act of compromise. It felt like surrender.
His body said what his mouth never could.
Don’t leave.
Later, in the quiet tangle of limbs and memory, I rested my head against his chest. His heartbeat was steady. Mine was not.
I wanted to believe this was the start of something real.
But somewhere in the dark, a part of me whispered:
He’ll disappear again.
Because people like David didn’t stay.
Not even for people like me.
But tonight… just tonight… I let myself believe he would.
- Writer
