I can’t trust her. I can’t love her.
But none of that matters because her ending is already written, no matter when it comes.
Adora
I’m… happy.
God, when was the last time I could say that? It feels like a lifetime ago. Another version of me, another skin I outgrew and left bleeding somewhere in the past.
But here, now, I’m smiling.
Dominic is making lunch, brow furrowed and glaring like he’s trying to intimidate the vegetables into submission.
It’s ridiculous. And perfect.
My smile lingers, but inside, there’s a pain I can’t shake.
We’ve been married for nine fucking months. And yes, I'm happy. But the truth is that we’re stuck. In this house. In this silence. In thenot sayingof it all.
I never talk about the past, about what I did. I don’t tell him about the aftermath.
I never ask details about his time in prison. I’m too afraid to do it, I don’t want to lose him.
But he doesn’t ask me either. We circle around it, every day, every hour. We fill the quiet with other things. Laughter, sex, food, music, anything but the truth.
A month ago, I felt it. The last piece of my armor — of the wall I built to keep him out, to protect myself — it cracked, then crumbled into dust. Love for him poured in like sunlight through broken glass, like I never had to smother it into oblivion, hide it in the deepest corners just to keep on surviving.
And now it’s here, sitting heavy in my chest, warm and comforting. But also painful. Because I can’t tell him.
I love him and I can’t tell him.
My eyes drop to the book in front of me, but most of the words blur together. I’ve been reading and re-readingSugar and Ashobsessively for weeks now. It’s my favorite novel, but that’s not why I can’t seem to put it down lately.
It’s because of one short sentence.
“Do you speak Spanish?” I ask, glancing back at Dominic. “I know your father was from Spain, but did you ever really learn it?”
He never shared many details about his birth parents. Not before, and definitely not now. I guess it was always too painful for him to dwell on them, having lost them both in one night to a drunk driver.
The knife in his hand stills mid-chop. A second later, he sets it beside the half-cut vegetables and looks at me.
“Yeah,” he says, attempting a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “My dad taught me.”
His tone is softer than I’ve ever heard from him. The sound melts inside my chest.
“Will you translate something for me?” My voice comes out shaky. I don’t know why I’m asking him to do this.
“Sure, adorable.” His smile looks more natural now, but his gaze sharpens with curiosity.
I clear my throat and flip through the pages until I find it. I don’t need to search long. I’ve read it hundreds — maybe thousands — of times these past few days.
“A wish is not a promise, but a promise is a wish.” My finger traces the line as I speak, following each word.
When I look up, he’s no longer smiling. Something flickers in his eyes, then scatters before I can fully catch it.
He swallows.
“Un deseo no es una promesa, pero una promesa es un deseo.” He tilts his head slightly, studying me. “What do those words mean to you?”
