The Spaces Between Us

I haven’t written in a while, though my mind has been anything but quiet. My husband hovers over me, smothering me with a kind of attention that feels less like love and more like possession. Since he cut ties with other women, his gaze has narrowed onto me alone—as if I’m supposed to fill the void they left behind. Ironic, isn’t it?

But I’m not that woman. I don’t hand out trophies for basic effort or pour out endless praise just to keep a fragile ego afloat. He craves validation the way others crave air, and yet all his constant compliments have lost their meaning. I don’t need to be worshipped to know my worth—I’m finally beginning to taste the freedom of defining it for myself.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m being cruel for holding back, but then I remember the hell he’s put me through, and I don’t feel so guilty. There’s a strange clarity in that.

And then, there are the quiet moments… when he slips into my thoughts. My stud. Not as often as before, but enough to stir something in me—a warmth, a sweetness, a reminder of how alive I once felt. I no longer ache the way I did, but when his memory surfaces, I simply close my eyes and thank the universe for the gift of having known him, even if only for a fleeting time. I imagine him somewhere far away, wandering through beautiful places, living a life full of freedom and wonder. That thought brings me peace—and yet, in the softest corners of my heart, a trace of longing still lingers, delicate and unspoken.