At dinner she spoke with that easy calm of a woman who has long learned to live alone. She said her nights were quiet, her sleep uninterrupted, her body content with stillness. She made it sound like freedom—like she had escaped the need for anyone else’s warmth beside her. He nodded, admiring her poise, the way her words carried no trace of hesitation. But later, when she excused herself, when the evening ended and she slipped away with that graceful assurance, he couldn’t help but imagine the silence she would soon step back into.
Because what people say and what their bodies confess are rarely the same. She claimed the night was hers alone, yet he had once glimpsed her room in passing. The bed was neat, yet the pillows were bent, folded in on themselves as if her arms had been wrapped tightly around them. It was not the order of solitude—it was the evidence of someone trying to trick themselves into believing that softness was enough, that an embrace made of cotton could keep out the ache of absence. He wondered if she knew how much that betrayed her, how much it said she did not allow herself to say aloud.
He thought about it far too long. About how those same arms that squeezed the pillow might hold something—or someone—else if she allowed them to. About how her breathing, steady in the dark, might falter if it wasn’t just fabric pressed against her chest but warmth, weight, a pulse. She could speak forever about independence, about peace, about never needing anyone at night. But the image of her clinging so tightly to what could never cling back haunted him more than her words ever could.