Chapter 6
1194 Words
Sarah POV
The next morning, the house was painfully quiet. The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful but heavy—thick enough to feel in my throat. The faint hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic tick of the dining room clock were the only sounds filling the air.
Ryan sat across from me, reading something on his phone as he had his breakfast—toast, scrambled eggs, black coffee. His movements were precise, habitual, almost mechanical. I sat quietly on the other side, picking at my food though my stomach had long since given up on hunger.
My body hurt. My lower back throbbed, and my cheek still burned faintly from last night’s slap. The moment his palm had connected with my skin replayed again and again in my head—sharp, sudden, humiliating. But I didn’t dare touch the sore spot, not in front of him. I didn’t want him to see the reminder of what he had done.
I kept my face blank, my posture straight, my eyes down. It was safer this way.
He hadn’t said a word since he came down for breakfast. Not even a “good morning.” But silence between us had become a language of its own—a fragile, dangerous thing that could shatter at any moment.
Part of me was relieved. He was leaving today for a business trip. His trips were usually long—sometimes a week, sometimes two, sometimes longer. I never really understood why he had to go for so long or so frequently, but I didn’t question it. The reasons didn’t matter.
All that mattered was that for a few days—maybe weeks—I could breathe.
No shouting.
No slaps.
No forced smiles.
No pretending to enjoy what he did to me at night.
Just quiet.
I might even visit my parents. It had been almost a year since I’d last seen them. I wondered if they missed me. I wondered if they would notice the faint bruises I’d hidden beneath long sleeves and careful makeup. My mother’s eyes were always soft, always searching. Would she ask me if I was okay? Would I be able to lie again and smile?
I was lost in those thoughts—warm kitchen memories, my mother’s hands smelling of soap, my father’s quiet laugh—when Ryan’s voice snapped through the air.
“Salt.”
The word cut sharp through my thoughts.
I blinked, realizing he was staring at me impatiently.
He spoke again, louder, irritation bleeding into his tone. “Sarah. Salt. Are you deaf? I’ve been asking for it.”
My fingers fumbled for the salt shaker. “Sorry,” I murmured, quickly sliding it across the table toward him.
He didn’t thank me. He never did.
He sprinkled it on his eggs with neat, practiced motions. The sound of metal against porcelain filled the silence between us again.
I sat quietly for another moment, then finally gathered enough courage to speak. My voice came out small, hesitant. “Ryan…”
He didn’t look up. “What?”
“I was thinking…” I paused, my heart thudding fast. “Since you’ll be away for a while, maybe I could visit my parents. Just for a few days.”
He froze, fork halfway to his mouth. The change in him was immediate, subtle but sharp.
My pulse quickened. I rushed to explain. “It’s just been a long time since I saw them. I won’t stay for long, maybe three or four days at most—”
The sound of his bread slamming down on the plate made me flinch. His eyes lifted to meet mine, cold and cutting.
“You want to visit your parents?” he hissed, voice low, dangerous. “What about mine? You never ask to visit them.”
I swallowed, forcing my voice to stay steady. “But we… we visited your parents a few weeks ago.”
His palm hit the table hard. The plates rattled. My breath caught.
The message was clear.
I went silent. My hands tightened around my fork under the table until my knuckles turned white.
He didn’t want me to go. Of course he didn’t. He was afraid. Afraid I would tell them something—afraid I would break the perfect image he had built of our marriage.
But I just wanted to see them. Just for a little while. To remind myself that there was still a part of the world that wasn’t suffocating.
My throat felt tight. I lowered my eyes and said softly, “I won’t go.”
He exhaled sharply, a sound closer to a scoff than a sigh, and stood up. His chair scraped harshly against the marble floor. “If you have that much time on your hands,” he said coldly, “go visit my parents instead.”
He grabbed his phone and jacket, his movements brisk, irritated. His suitcase was already by the door. Without another word, he walked out.
The front door closed behind him with a dull click. A few seconds later, I heard the distant growl of the car engine fading away.
And then there was silence again.
I sat there for a long time, staring at the space where he’d been sitting. His plate was half-empty, crumbs scattered across the table. His coffee sat untouched, a ring of steam still clinging faintly to the rim of the cup.
My fingers brushed over my sore cheek absentmindedly. It was still tender.
The air around me felt oddly hollow now. Even when he was gone, his presence lingered in the house—in the walls, in the echo of his voice, in the places I wasn’t allowed to go, the things I wasn’t allowed to touch.
I looked toward the window. The morning sunlight filtered weakly through the sheer curtains, painting faint golden stripes across the table. Outside, the world was still moving—cars, people, life—but in here, everything was stuck. Frozen.
He hadn’t looked back once before leaving. Not even for a goodbye.
I lowered my gaze, letting out a quiet breath. His words replayed in my head: Go visit my parents instead.
Maybe he was right. Maybe I should.
Maybe if I took the initiative, it would make things easier. If I showed them that I still cared, that I was still trying to be the “good wife,” maybe it would please him when he came back. Maybe he wouldn’t be angry next time.
Or maybe I just needed to remind myself of what kind of family I’d married into—to understand how deep his roots went, how far his cruelty stretched.
I stood up slowly, clearing the plates one by one. My hands moved on their own, cleaning the table, rinsing the cups. I needed to keep busy. Because when I stopped, when there was nothing left to do, the silence grew too loud.
And so, I worked in silence, whispering softly to myself as if to fill the emptiness.
“Maybe I’ll visit them,” I said under my breath. “Maybe it’ll make things easier…”
- Writer
