The realization that, despite our frustration, he had returned. He stopped. He checked on me. He left a trace of tenderness amidst the tension.
Sometimes I thought the things we didn’t say were the truest.
The next morning, we sat across from each other at the kitchen table, steam rising from our coffee mugs. We didn’t rush with apologies or explanations. We talked about ordinary things—the weather, errands we’d taken, what the coming day would be like. Small things, but important. It glued something back together.
Finally, he looked up and said, “I wish we could talk without hurting each other.”
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