Exit wounds

TWO: THE BEGINNING OF THE END

I woke up before the sun.

Not because of an alarm. Not because I had somewhere to be. Just because I couldn’t sleep. Because my body, or maybe my heart or whatever piece of me, had decided it had had enough rest. Enough pretending.

There’s this weird kind of ache that wakes you. Not the sharp, stabbing kind, but the dull, throbbing kind that sits heavy in your chest like a secret. Like something’s wrong, but you’re too scared to name it out loud. That’s what I felt. Like something in me had snapped so quietly, it didn’t even echo.

Tavish was still asleep beside me.

His hand was sprawled across the sheet like it was reaching for something. Maybe me. Maybe her. Who even knows anymore. The other hand was curled against his chest like he was protecting his heart or maybe hiding it.

There was a time I used to believe that hand was holding me in his dreams. Like somehow, in his sleep, he still chose me.

Now?

I wasn’t so sure.

He looked peaceful. Too peaceful. Face soft, brows relaxed, lips slightly parted like he didn’t have the weight of six years on his back. Like he didn’t lie to me last night. Like he wasn’t walking around this house with someone else’s scent still clinging to his skin.

And that’s what hurt the most, honestly.

The fact that he could sleep like that.

Like nothing happened.

I studied his face, sharp jaw, faint stubble, that little crease between his brows that used to deepen when he laughed. Back then, he used to laugh with his whole body. Loud, reckless, joyful. We’d run barefoot through the park when we couldn’t afford Uber rides, buy one bottle of Coke and split it, argue about who got the last sip. He used to look at me like I was all the gold in the world, and he couldn’t believe I was real.

But that was six years ago.

Now everything about him is calculated. Smooth. Curated for cameras and investors. Even his laugh is edited, like it only comes out when it looks good in photos.

Even his lies come dressed in Armani.

I slipped out of bed slowly, careful not to wake him. Not because I cared about his sleep. No. But because I didn’t have the strength to look at him this morning and pretend I wasn’t dying a little more every day.

The kitchen was cold, and my feet touched the tile like they didn’t want to be there either.

I made coffee. Just black. No sugar, no milk. Bitter. Straight up truth in a cup. I sipped it slowly, let it burn down my throat like I deserved it.

Outside the window, the city was still asleep. Just a few cars on the road, headlights crawling through the early morning fog. Somewhere far off, a train horn wailed, low and lonely. I used to love mornings like this. When the world was quiet. When it felt like anything could happen.

But now?

It felt like mourning.

Like something in me had died, but I hadn’t found the courage to bury it yet.

He came downstairs an hour later.

Fresh shirt. Crisp. A new scent, lighter this time. Something citrusy and clean. Not the light musky one he wore yesterday. I noticed immediately. I always notice. I wondered if she liked this one better. If he wore it for her. If she picked it out, just like she’d picked out my whole life and laid claim to it behind my back.

He walked up behind me, like he hadn’t come in at midnight, smelling like another woman. He kissed my temple.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

And I smiled.

Not with my eyes. Not with my soul.

Just with my lips.

Because that’s what women like me do. Women who are too tired to fight. Too proud to beg. Too broken to leave. Too numb to stay.

“I had back to back meetings today,” he said, reaching for a protein bar as we hadn’t even spoken since dinner. “Dinner with investors tonight. Might run late.”

“Of course,” I said, folding his suit jacket neatly over his arm. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

He paused for a second.

Just one beat too long.

Like maybe something in him twisted. Maybe guilt. Maybe fear. Maybe he was calculating how much I already knew. Maybe he realized the lipstick from last night was too obvious. Or maybe he didn’t care.

Because he said nothing.

And neither did I.

Later that day, I met Savannah for lunch at this cozy little café near my office. She always picks cute spots. She says heartbreak shouldn’t taste like sadness.

She ordered a matcha latte and studied me over the rim of her cup like I was a crime scene.

“You look like someone who hasn’t slept in three days,” she said.

She wasn’t wrong.

I stirred my coffee without looking up.

“He came home late again, didn’t he?” she asked.

Still, I didn’t answer. What was there to say?

“God, Mira,” she whispered. “Why are you still pretending he’s not cheating?”

Her words were like a slap wrapped in silk. Gentle, but it still stung.

Because someone finally said it.

Out loud.

And it is real now.

I blinked, staring at my untouched coffee.

“Because if I say it out loud,” I said quietly, “it becomes real. And I don’t know if I can survive real.”

Savannah didn’t say anything. Just reached across the table and took my hand.

And at that moment, just that one single moment, I felt like maybe I could breathe again.

That night, I didn’t make dinner.

I didn’t wait up.

I didn’t send him a text. Didn’t ask where he was or what time he’d be home or if he wanted something to eat.

I lit a candle. A soft vanilla sandalwood blend. The one I save for nights when I want to feel warm and human.

I took a long, slow bath. Let the water soak into my bones. Washed him off my skin. Scrubbed every part of me that had clung to his ghost. Let the soap slide down my body like goodbye.

I moisturized slowly. Put on my comfiest robe. Pulled my hair into a bun. Sat in the living room for a while and just… existed.

And then?

I crawled into bed.

But this time, I didn’t stick to my side.

I lay in the middle. Arms wide. Legs spread. Claimed every inch of the space he never noticed he’d left behind. I filled it with myself. With my breath. My weight. My grief. My fire.

He came home just after midnight.

I heard his keys jingle. Heard the door open and shut softly. Heard his careful steps, like he was walking through guilt.

I didn’t move.

He crept around, undressing in the dark like he didn’t want to wake me. Like I was the one he needed to tiptoe around.

I listened to the soft shuffle of his belt. The zip of his trousers. The sound of him brushing his teeth. Getting under the covers.

But he didn’t touch me.

Didn’t reach for me.

Didn’t even whisper my name.

Maybe he knew I wasn’t the one who’d be soft on him tonight.