Exit wounds

Tavish kissed the top of my head like he hadn’t just walked in two hours late. Like everything was fine. Like time didn’t matter and neither did my waiting. I let him. Because that’s what you do when you love someone more than you trust your gut. When you’ve spent so many years folding yourself into the shape of patience. When you’ve convinced yourself that maybe love is supposed to come with a few knots in the stomach. His arms wrapped around my waist, warm and heavy, too familiar to question. Heavy like the weight of six years. Like all our years stacked on top of each other like old paint that never really dried. Like every late night, every whispered promise, every stupid fight that ended in apologies and s*x and pretending we were still okay. Like the hope that it was starting to rust around the edges, no matter how hard I tried to polish it back to shine. “Traffic,” he said softly, his breath brushing my cheek, voice low and smooth, the kind that turns heads in public. “There was an accident on the bridge. You know how it is.” I nodded against his chest. I knew. Of course, I knew. I always knew. He took the west route this morning. The bridge wasn’t even on his way. I remembered, because I kissed him at the door like I always did. Watched him hop into the black Tesla he only uses when he’s headed downtown. I remembered the way he tugged at his sleeves. The way he ran his hand through his hair, fixing what didn’t need fixing. The way he didn’t meet my eyes for too long, he just kissed my cheek and dipped. I remember because I always remember. Every small thing. Every pattern. Every shift. Every lie that wasn’t said out loud but still took up space between us. But I didn’t say a word. I never do, right? The kitchen lights were too bright, casting this fake yellow glow over everything, making the whole room feel like a spotlight was on me. On us. The air was too still. Too clean. And he smelled different. That part hurt the most. He smelled faintly of Baccarat Rouge 540, sweet, expensive, a little floral, a little musky. The scent clung to him like silk. Not mine. Not even close. Dinner had been cold for a while. Hours. I made his favorite too, jollof rice, grilled chicken thighs, fried plantains, veggies steamed just the way he liked. Back when we were broke and happy, this was the stuff that made us feel rich. Now? The rice was stiff. The chicken was dry. The plantains were hard. The veggies looked tired. But I plated it anyway. Reheated it slowly, quietly, like I was offering up a sacrifice to the version of us we used to be. He sat across from me like nothing was off. Fork spinning in his hand, casual as ever. “This is amazing,” he said, flashing that boyish grin that used to make me feel warm all over. “God, I’ve missed your cooking.” He touched my knee under the table, lightly, like a memory. Same spot. Same pressure. So I smiled. Same smile. But inside? I was tired. Tired in that bone-deep way that no nap can fix. Tired of pretending. Tired of smiling through pain. Tired of swallowing silence like it was medicine. Tired of breathing around the lump in my throat like it wasn’t always there. And then I saw it. Underneath his crisp white collar, so clean, so careful, was a lipstick stain. And it wasn’t mine. Later, when he was asleep, like he was always before me, I couldn’t shut my eyes. He lay there peacefully, breathing like he had the whole world off his shoulders. And I just drifted through the house. Barefoot. Quiet. Careful not to wake anything that didn’t need to be woken. The kitchen light hummed. The fridge made its usual noise. I washed the last dish even though it didn’t need washing. Wiped down the counters like they offended me. Folded the dishtowel three times, even though twice was enough. I adjusted the pillows that no one sat on. Picked up socks I didn’t drop. Closed curtains that were already half-shut. It was like I needed to do something. Anything. Because if I stopped moving, I was scared I’d fall apart completely. It wasn’t just cleaning. It was survival. It was me stitching myself back together with chores and quiet and repetition. Trying to stay whole in a house where I was slowly being erased. Eventually, I crawled back into bed. Same side. Same sheets. Same space. He didn’t move. Didn’t turn. Didn’t reach for me like he used to. I stared at the ceiling like the shadows were going to give me answers. Like if I looked hard enough, the truth would spell itself out in the plaster. My hands balled into fists in the sheets. I didn’t cry. Not then. I just lay there and listened to him breathe. Calm. Steady. Smelling like someone else. He didn’t even wash her off. Didn’t even try. The disrespect? It was screaming at me. My name is Xamira Vale. And I’ve loved Tavish Knight for six long, stupid, complicated years. Before the designer shoes. Before the magazine spread. Before, women started giggling when he walked into a room like he was a damn movie scene. I was there when he couldn’t afford to fix the hole in his sneakers. When we shared one bowl of ramen on cold nights and pretended it was romantic. When we sat on the floor, eating with plastic forks, dreaming out loud like the future was guaranteed. I helped build him. Brick by brick. I poured love into him like water into dry earth. Hoping he’d grow. Hoping he’d bloom. And he did. He just didn’t bloom for me. The silence between us used to feel like safety. Now it feels like something’s moving inside it. Crawling. He talks less now. Leaves more. Smiles like he means it, but I know better. He still holds me. Still says he loves me. Still sends flowers to my office, like that fixes anything. But it’s all smoke now. Pretty. Soft. Empty. Looks solid until you reach for it. And me? I keep pretending not to see it. Because deep down, I know If I really look at it, if I strip away the excuses, the charm, the voice I once loved I’m scared I’ll see the truth. That he’s already gone. That he’s not mine anymore. That maybe he never really was.