Page 18 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

I looked down at my hands. They were trembling. I clasped them together, but the shaking travelled up my wrists and into my arms.

The tears I’d been fighting all evening finally spilled over.

I wiped them away quickly, almost angrily, only for more to replace them. My throat burned with everything I had wanted from him tonight—one glance that told me I mattered, one apology that carried genuine regret, one moment where he looked at the hurt on my face and cared enough to stay.

The shower continued running behind the closed door while I stood alone in the bedroom, listening to the man I loved wash away the last few minutes of our argument and carry on with his night.

My fingers curled against my sides.

The hurt clawing through my chest cooled into anger. I wiped my cheeks with the heel of my hand until my skin stung, forcing the tears away.

If he could shut me out that easily, I could stop reaching for him.

My feet carried me into the walk-in closet before I had time to think. My eyes found the sleek black suitcase tucked onto the highest shelf. I dragged it down so hard it struck the floor with a jolt that echoed through the room.

His team was there for him.

What about me?

My hands went to the nearest stack of clothes. Shirts, trousers, dresses—I grabbed whatever my fingers found and threw them into the suitcase. Fabric spilled over the edges. A hanger clattered to the floor. I barely heard it.

I have to leave.

The words kept circling through my head while I shoved the last few pieces of clothing into the suitcase. My hands shook badly enough that I fumbled with the zipper twice before finally forcing it closed.

I gripped the handle and pulled the suitcase upright, dragging it back into the bedroom.

Cassian emerged from the bathroom in fresh clothes, damp hair dripping onto the collar of his shirt. He rubbed a towel over his head, distracted by whatever had been occupying his mind, until his gaze dropped to the suitcase beside me.

His hand stopped, the towel slipping slightly from his grip. “Alessia.” My name came out low, uncertain. His eyes moved from my face to the suitcase and back again. “What are you doing?”

My jaw ached, the strain reaching all the way to my temples. My grip tightened around the suitcase handle as I pulled it closer.

I didn’t answer. I raised my eyes to his and let him see what his words had done. The humiliation of standing alone at my own party. The betrayal of watching him choose another place over me. Every lonely night I’d spent swallowing the hurt and finding another excuse for his absence.

He searched my face, his expression shifting as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. “You’re not leaving.”

I held his gaze for one last second before turning away.

His footsteps came after me, quickening when I didn’t stop. “Are you serious right now?” Disbelief roughened his voice. “You’re actually leaving because I missed one party? I said I’m sorry. What more do you want?”

One party.

That was what he had reduced it to.

One evening. One forgotten promise. One apology he had thrown at me because he wanted the conversation finished.

He couldn’t see how many times I’d caught myself reaching for him out of habit, only to stop when I realized he wasn’t reaching back. He couldn’t see how often I’d swallowed the words I wanted to say because every attempt to get through to him ended with another excuse, another promise pushed to tomorrow. He couldn’t see how lonely a marriage could become when you were the only one still fighting to hold it together.

Why did I have to explain my own heartbreak to him? Why couldn’t he understand what he’d done without making me walk him through it? Why did my hurt need an explanation before it could matter to him?

I was exhausted from making myself understandable to the person who should have known me best. Exhausted from turning my pain into words, laying it out piece by piece, only to watch him decide whether each part was justified.

He shouldn’t have needed an explanation. He should’ve cared enough to see what he was doing to me.

A sickening doubt crept through me, turning every certainty I’d held about us inside out.

Had he ever?