The hush stretched. Adrian looked wary, as if he was trying to make sure he didn’t breathe wrong and scare the moment away.
“You are?” he asked quietly.
I swallowed. “Yeah. I… I want my life back. That part of it, at least.”
The truth was simpler and more selfish than that. I wanted to stop being afraid of normal things. Afraid to see what our future might look like if we returned to normal.
We decidedI would return to the law office first while Adrian stayed home.
Not because I’d asked him to. I hadn’t even hinted. He just… waited. Spent the day padding quietly around the house, keeping himself occupied, texting me only when I texted first. A calm, dependable presence I could come back to.
When the doors opened onto my floor, the buzz of computers and low conversation washed over me. It was familiar. Safe-adjacent.
A couple of coworkers lifted their heads. Surprise and relief flickered across their faces, and something like fondness. Welcome back energy that didn’t sting.
I exhaled slowly, then made the short walk to my desk.
My chair still squeaked. My computer still took too long to boot up. My nameplate still leaned at a slightly crooked angle. Everything was exactly as I’d left it. Something in my chest eased.
The law office felt familiar again—routine and paperwork and the soft tap of heels on tile—but without Adrian’s constant company, the air seemed too thin. Too quiet. Every hour stretched long, elastic, waiting for me to snap.
People welcomed me back with warm smiles, but I keptexpecting something to go wrong. A phone call. A text. A gut punch.
Healing isn’t a straight line; trauma likes to sneak back in through the vents.
By the third morning,he stood in the kitchen in his scrubs, sipping coffee with that look he got when he was trying to gauge my stability without insulting my autonomy. I could practically feel him thinking,You’re okay. Right? You’re really okay?
I was. Mostly. Enough.
“You should go,” I told him, tying my tie. “It’s time.”
He didn’t argue. That was how I knew he believed me.
He kissed the side of my head and left the house at seven-thirty, and the door closed behind him with its usual soft click. The sound sliced neatly through my chest.
The house had been full of Adrian for months—his footsteps, his hovering, his conversations with the coffeemaker, the way he talked back to the TV even though it couldn’t hear him. Being home with him had been its own kind of therapy. Proof I wasn’t navigating the world alone. But I knew it couldn’t last. He had a job, too. A life outside our four walls. So I didn’t hold my breath. I didn’t cling. I just took the comfort for what it was: temporary but real.
And when I pushed open the door and stepped into silence, it hit me harder than I expected. The stillness wasn’t peaceful. It was loud. Deafening. A ringing absence that swallowed the room whole.
Funny, I used to crave quiet. Now it scraped at my nerves.
Don’t let the past have the room.Not tonight.
I flicked on the lights. Then the Bluetooth speaker. Music filled the quiet immediately—something upbeat, too energetic for how exhausted I felt. But that was good. It held back the shadows.
I dropped my bag, rolled up my sleeves, and started dinner. Something simple. Something I could stir with one hand while checking the clock with the other.
Adrian was supposed to be home at seven. He’d promised. No overtime. No staying late. No, “let me just check on one more patient.”
And I trusted him. I did. But my body had its own old scripts, and they weren’t as polite as my brain.
6:41.
I chopped vegetables. My knife rhythm felt too fast.
6:48.
I stirred the pot. Turned the burner down. Back up. Down again.
