Episode:3
1094 Words
Truth in Pieces
She sat at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, lips pressed tight. Her eyes followed him as he walked in, loosened his tie, and dropped his bag on the chair. She had just one question left, hanging in the air like mist that wouldn’t clear.
“Do you still plan on upsetting me tonight?” she asked without looking up.
He raised his brows, almost amused. “What now?”
“I mean, are you planning to go to sleep without talking to me?”
He sighed. “You want to sleep now or argue?”
“That’s your problem,” she said. You call it an argument. I call it honesty.”
Her voice was calm, but heavy. Weighted with too many nights of swallowing doubt.
“I just want to talk.”
He walked over and took a seat near her. “Fine. Talk.”
“You remember that message I told you about? The one you deleted?”
“What about it?”
“It was to Saima.”
His expression froze, barely for a second—but she saw it.
“I saw her message come in. Then you replied. And then… gone. Deleted. Except you forgot the delivery report.”
He looked down. “Okay, fine. I replied. She asked how I was. I responded. That’s it.”
“Why delete it?”
“I thought if you saw it, you’d misunderstand.”
“And you didn’t think deleting it would cause a bigger misunderstanding?”
“I didn’t mean for it to turn into this,” he said quietly.
“That’s the problem. You never mean anything. "It’s always just a moment, just an accident, just nothing.” Her voice trembled now. “But it became something. Every time.”
He was quiet. She continued.
“I don’t need a thousand apologies. I need one honest moment. One moment where I don’t have to pull the truth out of your mouth, like a needle from a wound.”
“You’re making it bigger than it is.”
“No,” she said sharply. “You make it bigger by hiding it." I only ask.”
He leaned back, looking tired. “I didn’t want to fight.”
“You think I did?”
They both stared ahead. The wall in front of them had seen this before. The tension. The quiet fury. The repeated pattern.
“I’m not angry because of Saima,” she said after a while. “I’m angry because you treat me like I don’t deserve the truth.”
Her voice cracked again, this time softer. “Do I scare you that much?”
“No,” he whispered. “You don’t scare me." But I hate hurting you.”
She laughed once, bitterly. “You say that every time. Then do the same thing again.”
He looked away. She looked up.
A long pause passed.
“You said something once,” she murmured. “You said you loved every version of me.”
“I do.”
“Then why do you only trust the version that doesn’t ask questions?”
He had no answer. And for her, that was the answer.
She sat back, trying to wipe her eyes without letting him see. But he noticed. He always noticed, even when he acted like he didn’t care.
“You know,” she said, her voice tired, “you weren’t always like that. You used to talk to me. Laugh with me. Tease me with water splashes while I am cooking. You don’t even do that anymore.”
He stayed silent.
“I used to call you ten times a day, not because I was suspicious, but because I missed you. You used to ask, ‘What are you cooking today?’ or ‘Tell me what the kids did.’ And now, nothing. You come home. You eat. You sleep.”
He stood, restless. “There’s been a lot of pressure at work lately. I’m tired.”
“And I’m not?” she asked. “I run the whole house, raise the kids, clean, cook—without a single Sunday off. Do you know how it feels to not have a break from life?”
“I never said your life was easy,” he said.
“But you act like it’s invisible.”
That stung. He turned away and started putting away some dishes, trying to defuse the moment. But she followed.
“Last night,” she said, “you came home at 2 a.m. For three hours, I kept calling. Your phone was off. The office had closed at midnight. Where were you?”
He exhaled. “I was just out. I didn’t want to talk. I was too exhausted. I didn’t want a scene.”
“You didn’t want a scene?” Her voice cracked. “Do you think I wait up, not knowing where my husband is, just to create a scene?”
“I’m tired, Ajala,” he said, louder now. “I don’t want to explain every step of my life.”
“I’m tired too,” she replied, her voice now a match to his. “But I don’t shut you out.”
She stepped closer. “Where were you?”
“I don’t have to tell you everything,” he muttered.
Her eyes widened. “Yes, you do. Because I am your wife. Not your roommate. Not your flatmate. Your wife.”
He looked at her. “You don’t trust me.”
“I don’t trust the silence.”
They stood there, breathing heavily, the air between them full of years—years of memories, of shared glances, of now-vanishing closeness.
He walked toward the bedroom, picking up his phone from the table.
“Give me the phone,” she said. “Let me see why it was off.”
He gripped it tighter.
“I said, give it to me!”
“Shut up, Ajala!” he shouted, his voice suddenly booming. It shook her.
She froze. He had never shouted like that before. Not even when they fought. Not like that.
And then he added coldly, “And keep it shut. I’m not going to tolerate this anymore.”
Her heart felt like it had been thrown out the window. He wasn’t just angry—he was different.
He pointed at her. “Not another word.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her eyes filled, but no more questions left her mouth. She turned around and walked away.
- Writer
