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When you know love, when you've experienced it to its fullest and have become used it being there when you need it...
You become keenly aware of when it has been taken from you.
All it takes is a single instance, a single event, to realize that the love you have become so accustomed to has died.
This instance for you was the day Simon had come home after months of being away from you.
You had missed him.
You had missed him so much that you had grown to resent the cold of the empty side of your shared bed, the mornings you ate breakfast alone, and the silence of your empty home. You had grown to resent it all but you had worked to ignore it, to snuff these feelings out, because you knew that soon...soon your husband would be home.
And then here he was.
He came back to you wounded, weary, and distant.
He stood at the doorstep of your home with his shoulders taut and gaze alert as he waited for you to allow him inside. As if this wasn't his home too, as if he didn't own the key.
As if this place wasn't his as much as it was yours.
You had reached for him but he had stiffened, borderline flinching away from you. You let your hand fall and, without touching him, you ushered him inside.
"I'm glad you're home," you had told him. "I missed you."
Your eyes had flickered to his, hoping to catch his gaze.
But you failed and he had looked past you, his tired gaze swept over every square inch he could see. It was only as he deemed the space lacking any immediate threat did he allowed his shoulders to sag a fraction.
His wariness remained and you had noticed.
What you had noticed more acutely, however, was the wariness directed at you. The way he watched you from the corner of his eye. The way he had not allowed his back to be turned to you. The way...
The way his hand twitched towards the blade attached to his belt whenever you got too close.
You noticed all of this because he was your husband and you 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 him.
Or you thought you had.
Because the Simon, the 𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥, you knew had trusted you.
This Simon (this Ghost) did not. And it hurt. It hurt bad and you didn't quite know what to do with all of it. So you ignored it like you had ignored your loneliness and resentment.
Instead, you offered him a smile. One as sincere as you could muster when he looked at you as though you were a possible enemy.
"Are you hungry? I could make you something."
He didn't reply.
Instead, he walked away towards the hall that led to the bedroom you shared.
It was when you heard the sound of the bedroom door closing that you realized you had tears streaming down your cheeks.
Over the last few months, an overbearing sense of loneliness had been weighing down heavily on your steadily weakening shoulders.
You had been getting used to it, albeit slowly.
But the feeling that came with your shell of a husband walking away from you without a word...your previous sense of loneliness couldn't begin to compare to what you felt now.
The all-consuming emptiness.
- - - -
Days had gone by since your husband's arrival.
The two of you hadn't shared an actual conversation let alone the same bed. Simon took to being in all the places you weren't and when you caught glimpses of him, with his balaclava still covering his features, you had seen droop of the bags underneath his eyes. He wasn't sleeping. And you doubt that he would. Not with you in the house.
You'd like to push the way this has been affecting you down to the same place where you had hidden your loneliness resentment and emptiness. You'd like to tell yourself that everything would be fine and you just need to be patient.
But then you'd be lying and you've grown tired of lying to yourself these past few days.
Simon had come back different from his last assignment and this difference in his behavior is straining your relationship. You know this and you're sure he did too but you are also starting to think you were the only one who cared.
If he had cared he'd 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, with you.
But he isn't.
He's somewhere in the house and you're in the shower of your bathroom, head tilted down as you let the water from the showerhead roll off your skin.
Then you had the startling thought that the water from your shower might be the most warmth you had felt in a while.
What was more startling was that it was 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦.
It was sad and it was pathetic and it was true.
And you chuckled where you stood in the shower.
You chuckled because, 𝘨𝘰𝘥, you were pathetic, weren't you?
Your chuckles turned into broken laughs which, in turn, shifted into something more akin to choked sobs because...
Because it hurt more than words could describe having waited months for your husband to come home to you and still have the water from your shower be your only source of warmth.
You sobbed because even while in a house with the person you loved most and who should love you the same...you could swear to God that you've never felt so fucking alone.
And you could swear to someone else that being alone never hurt this bad.
- - - -
A week had passed since your breakdown in the shower.
You had cried all the tears you had and there was nothing left for you.
So you simply existed and had to deal with the fact that your husband no longer existed with you. He was just there. So close but so far away at the same time.
You could reach out and touch him but you knew it would get you nowhere. Just as talking to him had.
So you didn't.
You just kept making breakfast and allowed yourself to slip into a bleak routine because at least then you'd be able to keep some semblance of normalcy.
Simon was elsewhere but you thought of a time where he'd be sitting at the kitchen table. With you.
He wasn't much of a talker so any conversation would consist of you talking his ear off. But he always listened. No matter how much you spoke and regardless if the topic.
He told you once while you lied next to each other in your bed that he liked the sound of your voice. His mask was off at the time and you were able to see more than his blue eyes. You could see the arch of his brows, the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips and you fell in love with him a little bit more. You had told him just that, you told him that you loved him.
You could never forget the way he had smiled at you. It was small, a microexpression, but it was still there and it was enough.
He had told you that he loved you too.
That was ages ago but you hold onto those memories like they'd slip between your fingers if you aren't careful.
Like they were your most prized possession.
You finished cooking and, just as you always did, you put the leftovers in the fridge for Simon to eat later.
Then, just like every other day for the past two weeks, you ate your breakfast alone. You conversed with no one. You stared blankly at nothing. Then, you cleaned up the mess.
Almost on autopilot, you walked back to your bedroom, the same one you've grown to hate sleeping alone in.
When you made it inside it was the clatter that came from something falling on the floor that broke you out of your trance. You dragged your gaze to the bathroom door that sat ajar and the light spilling out from the other side.
Your breath caught in your throat and, distantly, you wondered when the last time you felt this nervous around Simon was.
You stood outside the bathroom door and raised to knock on it but it became stuck in place. You could hear him on the other side of the door— his voice muttering quiet curses as he fumbled around. It would be so easy to just walk in. To...to 𝘴𝘦𝘦 him. It was all you wanted these days. To see the man you married.
But you hesitated and took a step backward. The floorboard creeked under your weight and all sounds coming from the bathroom ceased.
He knew you were there.
A door separating him from you.
It felt like more. Like you were planets away and he couldn't reach you from where he stood.
But he knew you were there nonetheless and it would be a shame to back out now.
"Simon?"
He didn't answer you but you didn't expect him to.
"Can I... Can I come in?" You asked, your voice unsure, desperate even.
Again, he said nothing but he also didn't object. You'd be taking a big chance entering the room despite his lack of a proper answer.
But loneliness gets the best of some and it has already bested you.
You want to talk to the man you married.
You pushed the door open. You kept your movements slow, your hands where he could see them. Your expression was open...until you saw the state he was in.
Simon was sitting on the toilet lid, his shirt discarded on the tiled floor along with a fallen bottle of hydrogen peroxide. The skin of his torso was littered with bloodied bandages that covered lactations with ripped stitches.
He had lost weight since you'd last seen him uncovered.
It took you several moments to realize that his mask no longer hid his face from you.
You felt your heart break when you saw the dark circles that adorned his tired eyes. His cheeks looked sunken, his lips pulled down in a permanent frown.
He looked so...
Hollow.
You felt your heart break a little more.
"Oh, Simon..."
It was the first time in months that you've seen his face. You wish the occasion could be more happy.
But it was just you staring into the dull eyes of the man who held your heart in his scarred hands.
That same man stared back at you, his eyes clocking your every movement.
Clocking that expression on your face. One of anguish and sadness that seems so out of place on you.
You stepped forward and he stilled.
Simon did not miss the flicker of hurt in your eyes.
"I'm not gonna— let me help you, Simon. Please just...let me help you."
Simon looked at you, really looked at you, for a few moments. He noted your exhaustion, your bottom lip caught between your teeth, and the desperation in your eyes.
Simon was far from stupid. He knew that his avoiding you would affect you in some shape or form. He knew this but one could suppose that when you're so caught up in the workings of your mind you have little time to notice others. He's been neglecting you, he knows this too. But he's been feeding himself excuse after excuse on all the reasons he can't be around you, keeping himself blissfully unaware.
It's hard to ignore something when it's staring down at you, waiting for any indication that its presence is welcomed.
With his jaw tight and eyes averted elsewhere, Simon nodded.
"Go ahead," he said.
His voice was low and gruff, but you expected no less. Not from him. And there was a rasp to it, like he was unused to talking and his vocal cords strained to form his words.
But he spoke to you and that was enough.
It would be enough.
You smiled, a small fragile thing destined to fall as quickly as it came.
For Simon, however, this too would have to be enough. It would have to be enough because it'll be the most he gets from you for a very long while.
He doesn't know it yet but he should savor that pathetic little upward twitch of your lips.
Slowly, you lowered yourself onto your knees in front of him. There was probably a stray stool sitting around somewhere in the house but you felt if you left now you would not be welcomed back.
An interruption of any kind at this moment would prove to be a detrimental loss of all you trying to achieve with Simon.
So you sit on your knees and reach for the fallen bottle of hydrogen peroxide and the clean cloth sitting atop the sink.
You felt his eyes on you, watching you with all the intensity that is Simon "Ghost" Riley. But you continued with a snail's speed.
You held the now alcohol-soaked rag in your hand as you looked up at Simon.
"Is it ok? If I touch you?"
You watched his brows pinch slightly, the beginning of a frown on his lips.
After a few long moments of silence, he answered.
"Yes."
You nodded your head.
"This'll hurt," you said, knowing full well he's been through so much worse. That compared to everything else he's been through this would be nothing.
But you warned him because pain is pain and in any capacity it is unpleasant.
He said nothing when you told him it would hurt and his silence stretched on even as you began cleaning his wounds.
The most you heard from him was the occasional sharp inhale or suppressed groan.
You supposed that even with the legends shrouding his name, he was still painfully human.
As you went on you began to murmur whispers of "'𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺" and "𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦". You weren't sure how much it helped, if at all, but it just felt good to 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 to him again. To have him in your presence.
Soon you were done with all the cleaning and you began to apply gauze to his many wounds.
You were careful with him, devastatingly so.
You were careful with him because you were so sure that it's been a long time since anyone had treated him as something other than an impenetrable man of war.
He deserved more than to be treated as a weapon. You wished... You wished he would stop being so distant with you so you could show him.
Absentmindedly, you had found yourself reaching to trace one of the many scars he's accumulated—the raised scarred tissue that had failed to heal correctly. Likely from the scar reopening.
Simon was always too rough with himself, you thought.
Before your fingers could brush against his skin, you felt a hand wrap around your wrist.
"Are you done?"
You blinked, catching yourself, pulling your hand away.
"Sorry. I'm sorry I– yeah, I'm done. Uhm... I can get you some pain—"
"No need."
Before you could finish your sentence Simon was already standing, his mask in his hands as he made his way out of the bathroom.
You were still on the floor looking at the bathroom door he had just walked out of.
After a moment... And another and another, you finally averted your gaze down to your hands in your lap.
You weren't stupid.
You knew better than to think that this one little instance would be the catalyst for your relationship with Simon to begin repairing itself.
You knew this but you foolishly allowed yourself to 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 that it would be.
And where did that get you?
Alone on your bathroom floor with a mess to clean up.
You loved Simon.
God, you loved him more than anything.
But you could only take so much.
- - - -
You were right to think that the short moment in the bathroom wouldn't change anything.
Simon was still cold to you and your loneliness continued to haunt you.
Nothing had changed.
But... But if you look closely, pay 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 close attention, you might've caught the way Simon's eyes lingered on you from behind his mask.
It was fleeting and it was hardly noticeable and it wasn't enough. Not for you who has spent months alone. For you had who had the man you loved so close to you yet remained oceans away.
So you sat at your kitchen table, a plate of lukewarm food sitting before you, a fork in your hand as you picked at the food.
A floorboard creaked under pressure and you met Simon's gaze. Instantly, you sat a little straighter and looked a little more alert.
Simon only paused for a moment before continuing his walk as if you weren't there. As if you weren't desperate for him.
It was the sound of your voice that stopped him in his tracks.
The broken call of his name sounded from a quiet, 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 voice.
"Where...where are you going?"
A beat.
"Not any of your concern."
It was an awful thing to say to you, he knew that. But Simon is nothing if not a man incredibly gifted at making emotionally-straining situations worse.
You winced as if he struck you and, silently, Simon regretted his words.
He, however, made no move to soften his blow.
"Oh," you said, because 𝘰𝘩, When did his whereabouts become '𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘯'? "Uhm–" you paused, looking at the food sitting in front of you. "Could you eat dinner with me tonight, Simon? I'm worried you haven't been eating properly and–" 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐'𝘮 𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 "I could use the company, I think."
Simon's gaze flickered to the front door of the house and then back to you.
"I'll eat when I get back."
You nodded, ten times more enthusiastic than you probably should be, that juvenile feeling of hoping flooding your heart again.
"Ok. Yeah, I'll– I'll wait for you. Then we can eat together."
Simon dipped his head in a stiff sort of nod of confirmation before he left.
And maybe you should've known then that he had no intention to see this through.
But still, at the time you were filled with that hope that you had unintentionally allowed to cloud your judgment.
So you sat at your table, and your lukewarm food grew completely chilled as you opted to not take a bite until Simon was back. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨, you had told yourself. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐'𝘮 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮, you lied.
No matter what pretty little lies you told yourself and how often you spoke them into your empty home, it never changed the fact that that's all they were.
Sweet nothings that only fed further into your initial hurt and denial-induced desperation.
And what a shame that was... No matter how often you repeated your lies and how much conviction there was in the way in which you said them— they would continue to be untrue and continue to hurt you.
It was torture.
Did Simon know that?
Did he know how he was torturing you?
How deep did his indifference cut you?
How much you bled from his neglect?
No.
Of course, he didn't.
Because then he'd have to realize that he's changed and that his actions resulting from said change are ruining his spouse— 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 his spouse.
And what will he do then?
Will he apologize as if it would be enough? Perhaps he'll give you all the love and affection you craved before stonewalling you once more because he was never emotionally available enough for marriage in the first place.
You knew this but had said yes to his proposal anyway.
So maybe it's your fault that you fell asleep at your kitchen table with the dinner you worked hard to prepare pushed to the opposite end.
Maybe it was all your fault because you were naive enough to believe that you could change a man who didn't know how to change. To teach him all the things he wasn't quite sure how to learn and was too stubborn in his ways to try.
It was your fault because you placed your hope in a hopeless man.
- - - -
Guilt is relentless.
It preys on even the strongest of men...
And it has sunk its claws deep into Simon's subconscious.
He'd have liked to think that it was something that just came around out of the blue— that up until this point, there was no real reason for him to feel such a way.
But that isn't true and, at the very least, Simon has enough emotional awareness to realize that it was always there.
The moment he stepped through the threshold of the home he shared with you and looked at you like you were some kind of stranger was when the little seed of guilt had embedded itself into his gut.
He tried to rationalize it the best a man like him could.
The latest mission he had been on was filled with betrayal and the revelation that the trust he had placed in his comrades was misplaced and undeserved.
It hurt to know he was wrong for trusting people he was so sure he could.
Can you blame him? Truthfully, can he be blamed for looking at you as though you would readily betray him as well?
If the men he fought with, put his life on the line for, could betray him like this...who is to say that you wouldn't? Who is to say that your declarations of love and loyalty weren't just pretty words meant to lower his walls?
But as each day passed by and he watched how his distance affected you the guilt dug deeper and began to take root, fester.
He heard you cry yourself to sleep some nights, heard your broken sobs from behind the closed bedroom door. He didn't have to be in the room to imagine your misery. How you must've held yourself as you exhausted yourself with your tears because Simon surely wouldn't.
Not with his baseless doubts.
Simon heard you cry. He watched your face fall every time he walked passed you. He was keenly aware of how dull your eyes had become.
He sat and watched you spiral into your depression caused by him and his insecurity and his inability to communicate.
It was his fault you were hurting like this and the weight of his guilt was crushing him. It was there and he recognized it and he did nothing.
Because if there is one thing that is more relentless than guilt it is the pride of man.
Simon knew he was wrong in doubting your loyalty and love for him but he couldn't bring himself to change.
He was too far gone in his avoidance of you to come to you now with a changed heart.
Pride told him that he couldn't stop now.
It told him that it wasn't his fault for protecting himself from you.
That if you loved him like you claimed you did then you'd work to prove it, work to put his doubt to rest.
But you didn't and he can't stop and the guilt is slowly killing him, you know? It's fucking eating him alive.
And, honestly, it hadn't taken very long for the regret to set in.
When his pride wasn't blinding him from the truth, rationality replaced it, allowing regret to settle like a stone in his gut, weighing him down further.
It grew in size when he knowingly planted false hope in you and saw the way your full eyes regained a small fraction of their former shine.
"𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘪 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬."
He lied to your face then walked out of the door knowing damn well he wouldn't be back until the wee hours of the morning. Knowing damn well that, yet again, he'd be disappointing you with all the means to stop and ignoring each of them.
The thing about Simon Riley was that he was not a creature of change. He was one of habit. The world and those in it had been cruel to him and grew up wrapping himself in defenses and barbed wire.
Typically, these defensive measures would have fallen away in adulthood but having been a military operative for as long as he had...they've only been reinforced.
Stronger, harsher, impenetrable.
Simon Riley would not be Simon Riley without his defenses to protect the abused child he once was and the mortal man of war he is now.
These defenses were built on pride and the idea that no person could ever break through them.
Not even you.
And maybe a part of him has wanted you to break down the protective blanket of weaponry he's created for himself for the longest time.
Maybe he's grown weary of it and his bones have grown tired of his perpetual defensive stance and...and how nice would it be for someone else to do the protecting for once?
Maybe he knows that you'd be more than willing to do it.
But Simon is not a creature of change and he's forgotten how to take off the protection smothering him.
He's forgotten how to exist without it or, rather, never knew how.
And now, as he sits at a bar 7 miles away from your home, a glass of scotch in his hands, Simon thinks,
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮.
- - - -
When you know love, have grown accustomed to how it settles in your chest, have grown to thrive off of it like an addiction too good to quit...and you have it taken from you so quickly that you don't know what to do with yourself without it, what comes next?
Of course, you try with all the power you have to get it back.
You'd do anything for love.
You'd do anything to go back to the easy companionship and the closeness and the kisses.
But you will fail and you will cry and you will try to find fault in yourself where there is none.
You will think it's all your fault and you will promise to do better without knowing where you are lacking.
But that won't be enough and your husband will still love you less and less until there is no love for you at all.
And at that point, the only thing left for you to do is lick your wounds and keep on.
The world does not stop for pitiful wallowers and it will not stop for you.
So you do the only thing you can think of.
You pack your bags.
- - - -
It's only been a few days since the failed dinner.
Between that day and now it's only been takeout for dinner and neither you nor Simon found it in yourselves to complain.
Tonight, however, was different.
Tonight, you cooked another full meal and put hours of effort into perfecting it. You put care into each dash of seasoning, into every second you let the meal cook, into its presentation as you set the table and waited for Simon.
Tonight...
Tonight he'd speak to you— he'd 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 at you— because he will not be given the option to do anything else.
You will confront him and...
And you will hope for the best.
So you sat at your dinner table with a plate of food in front of you and with another plate directly across from you.
And, like he has for the last few months, Simon has kept you waiting.
With the passage of each minute you feel your nerves get a little more intense. Your hands shake in your lap and you can hear your heartbeat in your ears.
It took twenty minutes for Simon to finally join you.
He was dressed, once again, like he was going out. He only paused when he saw the meal you've displayed on the table.
His eyes raked over everything you've put together with that scrutinizing gaze you never thought would be directed at you.
"Eat dinner with me tonight, Simon."
You could see the hesitation in his stance, how he subtly leaned towards the door.
The way he couldn't quite meet your eyes.
"I'm busy tonight," he said, his voice gruff and without the confidence in which he usually spoke.
"Doing what?"
Simon said nothing because, honestly, is there any kind way to say he'd rather drink himself stupid than eat dinner with you?
"Eat dinner with me tonight, Simon," you repeated. "I'm only asking for a bit of your time."
The two of you stayed silent for a few moments. You stared at the side of Simon's head and he stared at the door.
Despite all the love and admiration you held for the man before you, all you could think at this moment was how much of a goddamned coward he was.
He could fight and he could kill but he couldn't look you in the eye and have a conversation with you.
You told yourself that you'd have patience for him, that he was hurting and healing and things like this should be handled delicately.
But Simon hadn't been delicate with you these past few months, deeming you unworthy of the soft treatment you had gifted him. In a way, you understood him. He was your husband—of course you understood him.
But that didn't mean you were okay with the way he silently trampled all over you.
He was hurting but so were you.
Where was that empathy when it's you who was hurt?
"Simon."
He looked at you, finally.
"Sit the fuck down."
A beat passed before he moved to the table you had set.
Simon sat the fuck down.
"Take the mask off. I want to see your face."
A part of Simon, a rather large part, wanted to refuse. Wanted to keep the security the mask brought, and cling to it. Because maybe Simon Riley really was a coward.
But even he could tell that now wasn't the time for cowardice and the fear of vulnerability.
He took the mask off.
You looked at him.
You've long since committed every fraction of his features to memory— the arch of his brow, the slight curve of his once broken nose, those deep blue eyes. You knew them all well.
You looked at Simon and then you began to eat.
You didn't look at him while you ate, and didn't speak either.
Soon he joined you in the silent meal.
The silence that sat between you was different than the comfortable ones from when you both lied awake in your bed.
It was uncomfortable, unbearable even, and Simon, ever the silent type, was struck with the need to fill it.
It was the perfect time to offer up any kind of explanation to you, an apology, you would've accepted anything.
But Simon had a thing where he's completely incapable of saying the right thing when it matters. He had the words all thought out, and knows what needs to be said by him.
In theory, it should be easy. All he has to do is 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬.
But in practice? Not a word could be said.
Somehow, when his words truly matter, Simon's tongue turns to lead, and the words he thought to say remain dormant in his inner monologue, useless.
How pathetic is that?
Minutes passed and the only thing that filled the deafening quiet surrounding the both of you was the scrape of metal against glass.
Then you spoke because in the minutes that you hoped that Simon would you've realized that you'll only be met with disappointment.
And, really, haven't you been disappointed enough?
"I'm tired," you said, and you both know just how true that statement is, "of feeling like a stranger around you."
Again, the words are 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 and all Simon has to do is form the syllables.
𝘐'𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺. 𝘐'𝘮 so 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺.
But he doesn't and Simon thinks that he might hate himself for it.
You push your plate away from you, the food half eaten and cold, and all of your attention is on Simon.
Your gaze is heavy and Simon forces himself to meet it.
"I waited months for you, Simon. Not a day went by where I didn't wish that you were here with me. It's always lonely when you leave, you know? The house feels bigger when you aren't in it, emptier too. And...it's so 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵. I hate how different the house feels when I'm the only one in it."
Simon's jaw sets and the guilt he feels doubles in weight, in density, all-consuming and without mercy.
He's so fucking sorry.
He wishes he could tell you that.
But his jaw is wired shut and all he can do is stare as you detail all your hurt and loneliness and grief.
"When you came back— 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬— when you came back? I was the happiest I had been in months. Those few seconds of seeing you on the porch within my reach were a
Happiest I'd been in months,"
You shook your head, a rueful smile on your lips.
"Then you ignored me like— like we haven't been married for two years and I was a stranger in a house you didn't recognize. It all went downhill from there."
"Do you know how it feels to have the person you love the most treat you so coldly for no reason at all Simon? Do you know how it feels to miss someone so much that hurts and miss them just as badly even when they're right in front of you?"
Simon had no answer.
You chuckled, not an ounce of humor in the sound.
"Of course you don't. Because I would never do that to you. It hurts a lot though, to wonder if I'm that easy for you to discard every time you walk passed me without a word. I...I sometimes wondered if you even loved me anymore."
For the first time since this conversation started, Simon spoke. His words were pained and strained and his hands balled into fists in his lap.
"I do."
Your eyebrows raised in surprise for a moment before your expression shifted into something sad, almost sympathetic-looking.
"When was the last time you told me that?"
Simon was rendered speechless and you breathed out a sigh.
"I know it's hard for you to be open with your emotions and I know that despite that you try your best to be open with me," you began, and Simon felt an awful sense of dread pool in his stomach.
"But—" for the first time that night you couldn't meet his eyes. "But it isn't enough. I wish it were, Simon, I wish your best could be enough but you're hurting me. Can't you see that? How much you've hurt me?"
Simon's throat is dry and his heart is beating fast and...what are you trying to say?
"I know you see it, Simon. I know you've heard me crying. And I know that you know that every time I cried it was over you. But that still wasn't a good enough reason for you to look my way."
You looked at him again and Simon wished you'd stop talking because— because if you just 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 then maybe he could continue to delude himself into thinking that his marriage would be fine.
But life seldom gave him what he asked for and you kept going.
"Whatever happened on that mission hurt you, I see that. I 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 that. But how long are you going to let that wound fester and hurt the both of us?"
"I...didn't know if I could trust you."
A beat.
"You didn't know if you could trust me?"
Simon looked away as you stared at him equal parts dumbfounded and angry.
"I gave you two years of my life, my vows, and every part of myself that I could offer you, and— and you didn't know if you could trust me?"
You scoffed a laugh.
"Ok, yeah ok. Tell me then, what reason did I give you to doubt me?"
Simon's gaze hardened on whatever he was looking at, his nails digging into his palm.
Still, he remained silent.
Much to your distaste.
"Oh, don't tell me," your expression soured, "you had no real reason to doubt me, did you? You just convinced yourself that you couldn't. That I'd betray even though I had 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 to do it."
You sighed and leaned back into your chair, letting your expression fall.
"I love you, Simon. I love you so, so much but I don't think we should've gotten married."
His eyes snapped to yours, his mouth opening to speak his defense.
It was your tired glance that made him close his mouth.
"I thought that maybe over time you'd change. That you'd— I don't know— learn to talk to me, to communicate. To drop your defenses, even if it is just a fraction, to have a real conversation with me. But look at you, Simon," you loosely gestured to his person. "You're the same as you've always been, so unwilling to change. And I've felt so alone because of it. You're hurt and you hurt me too. You don't mean it, I know, but you do and I'm tired."
"I'm so tired."
You said nothing for a while, waiting for Simon to say something—𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.
But he didn't and you really shouldn't have expected any less.
Slowly, you stood from your seat.
"Something needs to change, Simon, but I don't think you're capable of that. So for now I think it's best we spend some time apart, give us both some space to think."
You made your way to the front door where your bags already awaited you. You grabbed them and opened the front door.
Simon called your name softly— softer and more wounded than you've ever heard him— and you paused.
"I'm sorry."
You turned to Simon, a soft smile on your lips.
"It's a bit late for that now, I think. I'll see you soon, Simon."
The door closed behind you and Simon never thought the house he shared with you could be this silent.