I Need Space
1370 Words
The first night alone was the worst.
I lay on the narrow bed in my mother’s old room, staring at the ceiling fan as it spun in slow circles. The mattress dipped in the middle from years of use. The pillow smelled like fabric softener and home. But none of it made me feel safe.
I kept listening for footsteps.
Not my mother’s. Hers were soft, careful, the way she moved when she thought I was asleep. I was listening for heavier steps. For the sound of Andre’s shoes on hardwood. For the way he used to clear his throat before speaking, like he was about to say something he wasn’t sure I wanted to hear.
Silence.
Only the fan. Only my own breathing. Only the ache in my chest that felt like someone had reached in and squeezed.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up my face in the dark. No messages. No calls. Nothing from him.
I told myself that was good. That was what I wanted. Space. Time. Distance.
So why did it feel like punishment?
---
Moving back home had been easy. Too easy.
Most of my things were still in boxes in the penthouse. I never fully unpacked. Maybe some part of me knew I wouldn’t stay. Maybe I’d been holding back from the beginning, afraid to believe that a marriage built on revenge could turn into something real.
Pinka helped me pack the next morning. She didn’t ask questions. She just folded my clothes, tucked them into the suitcase, and handed me a cup of coffee when she saw my hands shaking.
“You’re doing the right thing,” she said finally, when the last box was taped shut. “Even if it hurts.”
“Does it look like I’m doing the right thing?” I asked, my voice cracking.
She hugged me then. Tight. Like she was afraid if she let go, I’d fall apart.
“He loves you, Pinkan,” she whispered. “I’ve never seen Andre like this. Not even when he thought I betrayed him five years ago.”
“I know,” I whispered back. “That’s the problem.”
Because I loved him too. And loving him made everything harder.
---
The penthouse felt emptier without me, I imagined.
Andre didn’t call. He didn’t text. He didn’t show up at my mother’s door with flowers or apologies or that stubborn look he got when he refused to lose.
True to his word, he let me go.
That should have made it easier. It didn’t.
On the third day, I caught myself standing in the kitchen, reaching for two mugs instead of one. On the fifth day, I woke up at 2 a.m. and reached across the bed for him before remembering he wasn’t there. On the seventh day, I broke.
I called Pinka.
“Is he okay?” I asked, skipping hello.
She was quiet for a second too long. “He’s working,” she said carefully. “A lot.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“He’s not sleeping, Pinkan. He barely eats. He looks worse than he did when Raka was trying to destroy the company.”
My throat closed. “Don’t tell him I asked.”
“I won’t,” she promised. “But he asks about you. Every day. He never pushes, though. He’s waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“For you to come back. Or for you to tell him not to.”
I hung up after that. I couldn’t hear anymore.
---
My mother noticed.
She always did.
“You’re quiet,” she said one evening as we ate dinner. Just the two of us at the small table in the kitchen. No city lights. No balcony. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of our spoons against bowls.
“I’m fine, Ma,” I lied.
“You’re not fine. You haven’t been since you left his house.”
I put my spoon down. “I needed to leave.”
“I know,” she said softly. “But needing to leave and wanting to stay are two different things.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
Instead, I cleared the table and washed the dishes, scrubbing at a stain that wasn’t there until my fingers turned red.
---
Two weeks passed.
I started to fall into a rhythm. Mornings with my mother. Afternoons filling out job applications, even though I didn’t know if I wanted to work yet. Evenings staring at the ring box on my dresser.
Andre’s ring. The one he gave me on the beach.
I never put it on. I couldn’t. But I couldn’t throw it away either.
It sat there, small and silver, catching the light every time I walked past. A reminder of what he said: _From now on, everything I do, I do for us. Not for revenge. Not for the company. For us._
Did he mean it? Or was it just another thing he said to keep me?
I didn’t know. And that not-knowing was eating me alive.
---
On the seventeenth day, I saw him.
I was coming out of the grocery store, my arms full of bags, when a black car slowed at the curb. I didn’t mean to look. But I did.
Andre was in the driver’s seat.
He looked worse than Pinka described. Thinner. Pale. His jaw was shadowed with stubble. His eyes, when they met mine, were tired in a way that had nothing to do with lack of sleep.
He didn’t get out of the car. He didn’t roll down the window. He just sat there, watching me, like he wasn’t sure if I wanted him to speak.
I wasn’t sure either.
So I turned and walked away.
My hands shook so hard I almost dropped the groceries. By the time I got home, my cheeks were wet and I didn’t remember crying.
---
That night, I dreamed about the penthouse.
In the dream, I was back in our bedroom. Andre was asleep beside me, his arm thrown over my waist. The city lights spilled through the windows. Everything was quiet and warm and safe.
Then I woke up.
And he wasn’t there.
I cried until my throat hurt.
---
On the twenty-second day, Pinka came over with soup.
“You need to eat,” she said, setting the pot on the table.
“I’m fine,” I said again.
“You’re not,” she said again. “And neither is he.”
I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know. If I knew, I might go back. And if I went back, I might never leave again. Even if staying meant waking up every day wondering if he still saw me as the girl he married to hurt someone else.
“Pinkan,” Pinka said softly, sitting beside me. “He’s sorry. I know that doesn’t fix it. But he is. And he’s willing to spend the rest of his life proving it.”
“I don’t know if I can believe that,” I whispered.
“Then take more time,” she said. “But don’t close the door all the way. Not yet.”
I nodded. But I didn’t promise anything.
---
On the thirtieth day, I broke my own rule.
I picked up my phone. I opened our message thread. The last thing he’d sent me was a week before I left: _Goodnight, Pinkan. Sleep well._
I typed something. Deleted it. Typed again.
_Andre, I’m not sure what happens next. But I’m not sure I want it to be without you._
My thumb hovered over send.
Then I deleted it.
I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know if I’d ever be ready.
But for the first time since I left, I didn’t feel like I was drowning.
I felt like I was deciding whether to swim back to shore.
---
Outside, the city kept moving. Above, the stars kept shining.
And somewhere out there, Andre was probably staring at the same sky, wondering if I’d ever come back.
I didn’t know the answer yet.
But I was starting to think I wanted to find out.
- Writer
