FIVE

ELENA

Sometimes I think I’m less of a wife and more of some grotesque exhibit tucked away in this mansion, Damian’s monster in the attic. Only I don’t get the benefit of solitude. I drag my heavy, swollen body around the house all day, and yet I may as well be invisible. The rooms are always filled with people he’s arranged, nurses, security, staff, but never him. They hover like shadows, polite but silent, watching without speaking, as though I might shatter if they acknowledged me.

My friends stop by. My mother comes in shifts, always fussing, always urging me to eat more, sleep more, think less. And while I love them, their visits never plug the gaping hole in my chest. Because when they leave, and they always do; the silence rushes back in. The house grows cavernous again, echoing with nothing but my own thoughts.

I sit there sometimes, staring at the way the light and shadows crawl across the walls, watching time slip through me like sand in an hourglass. I should be resting, the doctors would scold me if they knew how little I slept. But rest feels impossible when your soul is restless.

It’s midnight now. Again. My body begs for bed, for relief from the weight of carrying this child, but my heart insists on its ritual: waiting for Damian. It’s pathetic, I know. Some nights I laugh at myself, imagining the ridiculous picture I must make, an overgrown belly, a hopeful fool staring at the clock like a teenager waiting for her crush to text back.

But this… this is the only chance I have to see him. Midnight. That thin sliver of time when he might finally walk through the door.

Except he comes home less and less now. And when he does, it’s as though I’m not here. He sweeps in like a ghost, showers, changes, and then vanishes again.

I can’t decide what’s worse: his absence, or his presence that feels just as absent.

And still, I wait. Every night, I wait. Because some stubborn, stupid part of me still hopes that one of these midnights, he’ll come home and remember I’m his wife.

There were nights I woke with the sound of the door closing, soft as a sigh, softer than his voice had ever been with me. He never lingered long enough for me to call out his name. Just the faint click of the latch, and then emptiness again. It felt like I was always a step too late, always missing him by inches.

But one night, I woke and found him.

Damian was standing in the doorway of the baby’s room, his frame silhouetted by the faint glow of the nightlight. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even notice me leaning against the wall behind him, my breath caught in my throat.

The room was everything we had built together, the one space that felt like ours. Pearl stars hung from the ceiling, glowing faintly like constellations. The walls were painted the softest pink, brushstrokes uneven because Damian had insisted on painting them himself, though he was terrible with a roller. Roses curled into the corners, my roses, clumsy but heartfelt. The shelves sagged with fairy tales we had chosen side by side, arguing over which ones would be classics and which were too silly.

And under those shelves were the boxes. Our letters. The ones Damian said our daughter would one day read, proof that her parents had loved her before she ever drew her first breath. Proof that we had been waiting for her, dreaming of her.

Damian just stood there, staring at it all like he was in someone else’s home. A stranger looking into a stranger’s life. Then, without a word, he bent, lifted the boxes, and carried them out. I wanted to scream, No! Leave them! Don’t take this away too! But my voice stuck in my throat, and I could only watch as he disappeared down the hall. Later, I discovered he’d shoved them into the warehouse downstairs, like relics of something already dead.

I tried to talk to him after that. Tried and tried, pressing my hand against his, tugging at his sleeve, whispering his name. But it was like speaking to a wall. His eyes wouldn’t meet mine. His mouth was a tight line. My husband, my Damian, was there in flesh but gone in spirit.

This morning I was walking slowly through the garden, dragging my hand along the roses because the thorns at least reminded me I could still feel, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

Damian: Let’s talk. Boulevard Street, number 242.

I froze, the words glowing against my palm. Let’s talk. Two words I had begged for, prayed for.

My pulse thundered in my ears, and my legs felt weak. There was something wrong, I could feel it down to the marrow. This wasn’t him coming back. This wasn’t the soft reunion I’d imagined a thousand times at midnight.

But it was a chance, my only chance, and I was desperate enough to take it. Maybe there was still something left between us, something I could salvage if I just held on tightly enough.

So I dressed carefully, though my hands trembled. Not too much makeup, nothing that would make him roll his eyes. A soft dress, not the black one he hated, not the flashy ones he thought were “attention-seeking.” Just something simple, something safe. My stomach twisted with every movement, but I kept going, telling myself this could be it. Our turning point.

On the way there, I rehearsed lines like a nervous schoolgirl: Damian, I know there’s a problem between us, but I hope we can resolve the misunderstanding through communication. Even for the sake of the child, we can stop this cold war.

I repeated it over and over, pressing the words into my mouth so they wouldn’t fail me. I promised myself not to cry, and not let it take my precious time. No anger, just calm, reasonable words. Seize the opportunity… don’t let it slip.