The Hole In My Soul

The Weight Of Unspoken Words

Present

While writing down all those beautiful memories in my diary, I hadn’t even realized it was already evening. It had become my routine these past two or three days — waking up to mourn my broken marriage and pouring my heart into these pages. As if this diary was the only thing keeping me sane.

I hadn’t heard a word from Ethan’s lawyer yet. But Nishitha called every day, making sure I ate at least enough to stay alive. She nagged, she scolded, she begged — and somewhere, I was grateful for her.

After putting my diary aside, I called her.

“Nishitha, do you think we can just send the divorce agreement instead of waiting for Ethan to make a move? Living in this house is suffocating me every single day. Maybe I should move out… but I don’t have enough money for that. I might be able to afford a studio apartment somewhere here in New Zealand, but with the case proceedings ahead — I have no idea how much I’ll need. And I have no job. This book won’t start paying me immediately, and to be honest, I don’t even know if people would want to read my story.”

“Calm down, Mili,” Nishitha said softly, her voice the only gentle thing in my life right now. “You don’t have to worry about anything. You have me. You can come stay with me. My parents left for India months ago, and honestly, I hate living alone. And about work — one of my clients is looking for a home tutor for his son, Charles. The kid’s a handful, a real troublemaker, but the pay’s good. Mili… are you even listening to me?”

But I wasn’t.

Because in that very moment, I saw something — someone — that made my world tilt on its axis.

Ethan.

Walking back into our house.

With Rossie.

Pregnant Rossie.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

My heart didn’t just break — it disintegrated.

Wasn’t this the same Ethan who promised to love me for every lifetime we’d ever have? The same man who once said he never wanted children because he was abandoned by his own parents, left to grow up in an orphanage, never knowing their faces or names?

And now here he was, standing beside another woman, without an ounce of compassion left for me, carrying his child.

Oh God… what had I done with my life?

I betrayed my own dreams of a happy family for this man.

And now, fatherhood wasn’t scary anymore.

Or maybe… it was just fatherhood with me he didn’t want.

Ethan instinctively moved Rossie behind him — shielding her, as if my gaze alone could harm her and their unborn child.

Am I that evil in his eyes?

I clenched my trembling hands.

No. Not today.

I needed to get a grip on myself. I wouldn’t let him see me broken, no matter how shattered I was inside. Maybe I loved him too much, but I still had my own dignity.

In his eyes, I might be nothing. But I was once the apple of my parents’ eyes. I was someone. I mattered.

Swallowing the ache, I forced my voice steady.

“Is there something you left here so important you had to come looking for it, Ethan?”

He scoffed.

“Hahaha… You must be dreaming if you think this house belongs to you, Mili. Don’t you remember? It’s mine. I can come and go as I please.”

He rested his hand on Rossie’s shoulder.

“Rossie hasn’t been feeling well. The baby could come any day now, and her place is too far from my office. So I’ve decided she’ll stay here. You can stay till the divorce, then you’re out.”

And then, as if twisting the knife in what was left of my heart, he turned to her, his voice soft, caring — the tone I hadn’t heard in years.

“Rossie, I’ve already approved your maternity leave starting today. You can rest here. I’ve hired three housekeepers to take care of you. If there’s any problem while I’m at work, just call me. I’ll handle it.”

I stood there, numb, a thousand memories crashing inside me.

Had he ever loved me? Was I ever anything more than convenience to him? Why had he never asked me if I needed help… if I was okay… if I felt alone in the silence of this house, waiting for a man who never came home?

Was this the same Ethan I met in college?

The boy who wrote silly poems on tissue papers, who once told me my laugh was his favorite sound in the world.

Or was that boy just a lie too?