The Love that Kills me

Chapter 7

Hope woke up early, the same as she always did. She rose from her bed, wiping the last traces of sleep—and last night’s tears—from her eyes. Her reflection in the mirror told the truth of what she’d felt: swollen, red-rimmed eyes that had cried themselves dry. But her lips curved into the small, practiced smile she’d worn every day for the past four years.

She went to the kitchen and began to prepare breakfast. The aroma of eggs and bacon, the gentle clink of plates—she moved like a woman on autopilot, every motion practiced to perfection. She laid out the table, the cutlery neatly in place, the toast warm and ready.

When Stephen stepped out of his room, he looked just as she’d always seen him: crisp, handsome, distant. She greeted him with a gentle “Good morning,” her voice soft, her eyes never quite meeting his.

He nodded and sat across from her, and they began to eat in silence.

But then, Stephen did something he hadn’t done in a long time—maybe ever. He spoke softly, his voice uncertain.

“Are you alright, Hope?”

Her fork stilled in her hand. She blinked, her mind momentarily blank. She forced herself to nod and said, “Yeah,” her voice quiet, as she bowed her head and stared at her plate.

“Hope?” he pressed gently.

She lifted her head just slightly, answering with a quiet hum. “Hmm?”

Stephen hesitated, as if searching for words that wouldn’t come easily. “I’m… sorry,” he finally said.

She looked up, startled, her brows knitting together in confusion. “Why?”

He shifted in his seat, his eyes flicking away for a moment. “I heard what they said about you last night. I just… I felt like I needed to say sorry.”

Hope’s lips curved in that soft, false smile she’d perfected for years. She let out a tiny breath, as if to brush it off. “That’s fine. It’s not your fault.” Her voice was light, dismissive, and she picked up her fork again to continue eating.

But Stephen saw it. He saw the way her hand trembled just slightly as she reached for her glass. The way her eyes went flat, empty. He’d never noticed it before—never cared enough to look. But now, it was impossible to ignore.

He tried to remember when it had started—when people had begun to talk about her like that. How long had Hope carried the weight of those whispers? How many nights had she cried herself to sleep, alone in a house that was never really hers?

Hope finished her meal in silence. She took her plate to the sink, washing it carefully, and then disappeared into her room. Stephen sat there, staring at the empty seat across from him, the words he wanted to say heavy in his chest.

Half an hour later, she emerged, dressed in her simple work clothes, her hair tied back neatly. “I’m going to work,” she said softly, avoiding his eyes.

Stephen stood up and grabbed his keys. “I’ll drive you.”

Hope paused, her lips parting in surprise. “It’s fine,” she said quickly. “I can use my car—”

But Stephen didn’t even look at her. He walked past her and out the door, stopping only when he reached his car. He looked back at her and said, “Get in.”

Hope stood frozen for a moment, her hands tightening around the small purse she held. She wanted to say no—wanted to tell him she was fine, that she didn’t need him, that she didn’t want this confusing kindness. But she didn’t dare. She didn’t want to anger him, to see that cold cruelty return to his eyes.

So she walked quietly to the car and slipped into the passenger seat beside him. She kept her gaze fixed out the window, her fingers twisting together in her lap.

The drive was silent, the low hum of the engine the only sound between them. Stephen’s hand was steady on the wheel, his eyes focused on the road ahead. But he kept glancing at her—quick, searching looks that she pretended not to notice.

When they arrived at her little shop, he parked and turned off the engine. He got out without a word and walked around to her side, opening the door for her. It was such a small gesture, but it felt foreign—unfamiliar in a life that had been nothing but cold silences and lonely nights.

She stepped out and looked at him, her voice hesitant. “Thank you.”

Stephen didn’t reply, but he helped her carry a box of supplies into the shop. He placed it on the counter, his hands brushing against hers for just a moment. Hope pulled back, her heart fluttering in her chest for reasons she didn’t want to name.

She was about to turn away, to lose herself in the safety of her small shop, when Stephen spoke again. “Call me when you’re coming home,” he said.

She blinked. “I… okay,” she said softly, her voice unsure.

He didn’t wait for her to say anything else. He turned and walked out, the bell above the door chiming softly in his wake.

Hope stood there for a long moment, her hand pressed to her chest, feeling the confused swirl of emotions inside her. She didn’t know why he was acting like this—why he was suddenly… there, in small ways he never had been. She didn’t know what it meant, or if it meant anything at all.

But she knew better than to hope. She had spent too many nights wishing for something she would never have.

So she locked the door behind her and started her day, her mind a storm of questions and fragile, impossible dreams.