Wanting to be Seen Pt. 02

This is the continuation of 'Wanting to be Seen.' This much longer part explores the fallout from and motive behind the events in Part 1. Long, No Sex, Aussie English. Please Enjoy.

From Part 1...

Michael sat in silence, staring at the overnight bag. Seeing but not understanding.

She had planned this, planned the date, planned the confrontation. For what?

Almost like she wanted to pull the house down and live in the ruins.

Why didn't she have a plan for the fallout, a plan for this?

He didn't know what this was.

Not forgiveness. Not healing. Not redemption. Not understanding.

A feeling ... a nagging feeling, something about all of this was wrong.

Just the smouldering edge of something too important to throw away and too painful to hold.

This ... This was just the beginning ... the beginning of something harder than starting over.

Trying to stay.

Wanting to be Seen. Part 2.

Several Weeks Later

The office was quiet except for the slow tick of a wall clock.

Anne sat perched on the couch, wringing a tissue to shreds. Michael sat at the far end, arms folded, eyes locked on the floor.

The therapist, Dr. Berman, was a calm, middle-aged woman with sharp eyes that missed nothing.

"Let's talk about why you're both here," she said gently.

Michael didn't speak.

Anne sniffled. "We're here because I cheated."

Michael let out a low scoff.

Dr. Berman nodded. "Good. Owning it. Anne... what does that mean to you? 'I cheated.'"

Anne swallowed. "I broke my vows. I betrayed him. I put my own wants ahead of our marriage."

Michael's jaw twitched.

Dr. Berman turned to him. "Michael? Your reaction?"

He glanced at the therapist. His voice was flat. "She makes it sound like it was an accident. It wasn't."

Anne flinched.

Michael went on, voice rising. "She planned it. She picked out her fucking dress. She booked a hotel. She wanted it."

Anne sobbed. "I know. I know, Michael."

Dr. Berman raised a hand. "Anne. Is that true? Was it planned?"

Anne's voice cracked. "Yes. I planned it. I wanted to know what it would feel like."

Michael barked a bitter laugh. "And did you find out?"

She hesitated.

"ANSWER ME!"

"Yes," she whispered.

Dr. Berman held up a hand. "Michael. Let's let her finish."

Anne's voice trembled. "It felt exciting. Wrong. Forbidden. And good. Physically. Yes. I'm sorry, but yes."

Michael's eyes went dead.

"You see?" he said to the therapist. "She didn't just slip up. She liked it. She fucking loved it."

Anne gasped. "I didn't love him! I didn't love what it meant."

Michael spat, "But you loved the sex."

She buried her face in her hands.

Dr. Berman was quiet, letting the words hang in the air.

After a moment she spoke softly. "Anne, is that the part you're still struggling to own?"

Anne nodded miserably.

"I'm sorry I hurt him," she choked. "But I can't say it wasn't good in the moment. It was. And that makes me hate myself."

Michael stared at her with naked disgust.

"You hate yourself? Good. Because you sure as fuck made me hate myself."

Dr. Berman looked at him carefully. "Michael, what do you mean?"

He didn't look away from Anne.

"I can't touch her," he said. His voice cracked. "I want to. I miss her. But every time I think about it, I see him. I see her on top of him. I hear her. I can't do it."

Anne sobbed harder.

Michael's voice grew colder. "And she gets to say 'I'm sorry' and what... I just swallow it? Move on? Be the good husband who forgives?"

He turned to Dr. Berman. "I want something back. I want something that makes it even."

The therapist nodded. "Tell us what you mean."

Michael's voice was low, trembling.

"She got her night. She got to feel wanted. Desired. Risky. New. I want my night."

Anne's head snapped up, eyes wide.

"Michael... what?"

He didn't blink.

"I want to fuck someone else. Once. With you knowing. You want to stay? That's my price. Balance the scales."

Anne gasped like he'd hit her.

Dr. Berman said gently, "Anne, your reaction?"

Anne shook her head violently. "No. No. Michael, please."

Michael's lip curled. "Oh, now you don't like it."

She sobbed, grabbing for his hand. He jerked it away.

"Please, don't do this," she begged.

Dr. Berman held up a hand to calm them. "Anne let's pause. Why does that idea hurt you?"

Anne choked on her tears. "Because it would kill me. The thought of you touching someone else... Michael, I couldn't stand it. I'd rather die."

He spread his arms in mock surprise. "Welcome to my fucking world!"

Silence.

Dr. Berman waited.

Anne wiped her face. Her voice was barely a whisper.

"I know I don't deserve to say no. But I'm begging you. Don't do it. Don't make us that."

Michael leaned back, crossing his arms.

"I can't be intimate with you. I can't trust you. I see you moaning for him every time I close my eyes. How do I get past that?"

Anne shook her head helplessly.

Dr. Berman looked between them.

"Michael, you want an answer from her. Let's ask directly. Anne... what would you do to help him heal?"

Anne swallowed.

"I'd do anything else," she whispered. "Anything but that."

Michael's eyes narrowed.

"So you'll do anything except give me the same freedom you took."

She nodded miserably.

"Then you don't really want to make it right," he said.

She cried harder.

Dr. Berman spoke gently. "Anne... if he truly needs that, to heal, would you allow it?"

Anne shook her head. "I can't. I'm sorry. I know it's not fair. I know."

Michael's voice was ice. "Then you're not really sorry."

She screamed in anguish. "I am sorry! I'd cut off my arm if it would fix this! But I can't watch you with someone else. I can't survive it."

Michael leaned forward, eyes burning.

"I didn't think I could survive you with someone else, either. But here I am."

Silence.

Anne broke. She fell to her knees on the therapist's rug, sobbing uncontrollably.

Michael turned away, arms folded, refusing to look at her.

Dr. Berman's voice was very soft.

"This is where we are. The reality of the betrayal. The cost. The impasse. You both want the marriage, but the pain has to go somewhere. It demands payment. And neither of you knows how to pay it without destroying what's left."

Michael's breathing was ragged.

Anne pressed her forehead to the floor, shaking with sobs.

Neither of them spoke.

The clock on the wall kept ticking.

Searching for Middle Ground

The therapy room was quieter than usual.

Michael sat rigidly in his chair, fingers interlaced so tight his knuckles were white.

Anne sat opposite, ankles crossed, wringing her hands in her lap.

Dr. Berman spoke softly.

"Today I want us to talk about the question Michael keeps asking: How can I be intimate with you again, knowing what you enjoyed?"

Anne swallowed hard, voice small.

"I don't know."

Michael let out a bitter laugh.

"Honest, at least," he muttered.

Dr. Berman glanced at him. "Michael... can you tell Anne why that question matters so much to you?"

He turned to Anne, jaw tight.

"Because when I look at you, I see you choosing him. I see you wanting him. I see you giving him things you don't give me."

Anne winced.

He leaned forward.

"I see you enjoying it. More than us. Don't deny it."

She closed her eyes, tears leaking out.

"I'm not denying it," she whispered.

Dr. Berman waited.

Michael's voice cracked.

"How do I live with that? How do I touch you, knowing you had better with him?"

Anne's eyes flew open, panicked.

"It wasn't better because he's better than you," she pleaded. "It was better because it was wrong. Because it was new. Forbidden. It had nothing to do with you failing."

Michael's voice turned cold.

"Doesn't matter why. You liked it more."

Anne covered her mouth, sobbing.

Dr. Berman watched them both.

"Michael. Can you tell her what you think would help you feel equal? Even?"

He didn't hesitate.

"I want you to set it right. I want you to do for me what you did for him. And I want you to let me do the same."

Anne blinked in horror.

"You want me to cheer you on while you fuck someone else?"

He didn't blink.

"Yes."

She shook her head wildly.

Dr. Berman raised a hand. "Anne. Let's pause. Michael... tell us what you mean by that."

Michael's voice was shaking.

"She got to have her night. No rules. No consequences at the time. She got to feel wanted. Desired. Dirty. She got to hear someone beg for her. Make her come. And she liked it. She still likes remembering it. She admitted that."

Anne whimpered.

Michael went on.

"I want the same. Once. Just once. Someone who isn't her. Someone who wants me. Who I can touch without seeing him in my head. Without feeling second-rate."

Anne's sob turned to a raw, animal sound.

"Michael, please!"

He ignored her.

"Or," he added bitterly, "she can make it even another way."

Dr. Berman raised an eyebrow. "What way?"

Michael's eyes glittered with pain.

"She can make herself truly mine. No limits. No privacy. No barriers. Sex whenever, however. No refusals. No holding back. She makes me believe she'd do anything to keep me. That she wants me enough to crawl. Beg. Humiliate herself for me. Prove I'm the only one who matters now."

Anne stared at him in horror.

"Those are your choices," Michael said flatly. "Let me have my night. Or be my wife without limits. Because right now? You're not my wife. You're just the woman who fucked another man and liked it more."

Dr. Berman didn't say anything.

Anne shook her head violently.

"I can't watch you with someone else," she whispered.

Michael didn't blink.

"Then crawl."

She sobbed.

Dr. Berman spoke quietly.

"Anne... why does that feel impossible to you?"

Anne hiccupped, voice cracking.

"Because I don't want to be humiliated. I don't want to feel like property. Like he's punishing me forever."

Michael laughed once, harsh.

"You didn't mind me feeling humiliated forever."

She recoiled as if slapped.

Silence.

Dr. Berman waited.

Anne finally found her voice.

"I don't know if I can give you that. Either of those."

Michael nodded slowly.

"Then maybe we're done."

Anne gasped, crying openly.

He watched her with flat, dead eyes.

"I'm not staying in a marriage where you get to be the only one who enjoyed it," he said. "Where you're the only one who got something out of it. Where you got your dirty little adventure and I just get to eat shit forever."

Anne's voice broke.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Not enough," he said.

Dr. Berman cleared her throat softly.

"This is the impasse, right here. Anne... you're sorry for the hurt, but not for the act itself. You admit you have fond memories. And you want to keep him but not give him any real way to even the scales. That's what he's telling you."

Anne sobbed harder.

Michael turned away, eyes glistening.

"I loved you so fucking much," he said. "And you broke it. Now you want me to just forgive and forget. I can't. I won't."

Dr. Berman nodded.

"And Michael... you want balance. Or submission. Something that makes you feel like the scales aren't tipped forever."

He nodded tightly.

The therapist looked at them both.

"That's where we are. Neither of you can move forward if you can't agree on how to pay the price for what happened. And right now? You don't agree on the price."

Anne pressed her face into her hands, shaking.

Michael just stared at the floor, unmoving.

The clock ticked on.

And the silence was deafening.

Negotiation

The couch in Dr. Berman's office was starting to feel like home... a bleak, uncomfortable home neither of them wanted.

Michael sat slouched, arms folded across his chest, looking out the window.

Anne perched on the edge of her cushion; her hands twisted together in her lap.

The therapist's voice was quiet but uncompromising.

"Anne, you've said you want this marriage. You've said you'll do anything to keep it. But week after week, we hear the same problem. Michael doesn't believe you desire him."

Anne swallowed. "I do."

Michael let out a humourless snort.

"Do you?" he muttered.

She turned to him, stricken. "Yes."

"Prove it," he said flatly.

She looked helplessly at Dr. Berman.

The therapist steepled her hands.

"Let's talk about your attempts at intimacy," she said calmly. "Tell me, in your own words, what happens when you try."

Anne's voice was barely a whisper.

"I try to be close to him. I touch him. I kiss him. But he... he goes away."

Michael didn't look at her.

"I don't go away," he said coldly. "I'm watching you. Every second. Waiting to see if you're faking."

Anne's eyes filled. "I'm not."

"You are," he snapped. "I can see it. The way you close your eyes like you're bracing for something. Like you're ashamed to want me. Or you don't."

"I'm ashamed," she whispered. "But not because it's you. Because I ruined this."

Dr. Berman cleared her throat softly.

"Michael. What do you need from her in those moments?"

His gaze swung to Anne, raw and unguarded.

"I need to be seen"

"I need to know you want me. That you want me as much as you wanted him. That when you look at me, you see your husband, not some pathetic consolation prize you're stuck with because you feel guilty."

"I need you to want, Me. I need you to see ... Me"

Anne started crying.

"And I need you," he went on, voice low and shaking, "to admit you miss it. That you liked it. Because if you can't be honest about that, I'll never believe anything else you say."

Anne looked down at her hands.

"I miss the feeling," she whispered. "Not him. Not the betrayal. Just... the excitement. The rush. The... freedom."

"Being Seen."

Michael's lip curled.

"So you admit it was better."

"No!" she cried. "It wasn't better. It was different. It was empty. But it was... intense."

He looked away.

Dr. Berman leaned forward slightly.

"Anne... if you can't erase the past, what can you give Michael to help rebuild his sense of being desired? What can you offer that is honest, not just appeasement?"

Anne stared at the rug, trembling.

"I don't know."

"Try," the therapist pressed gently.

Anne swallowed, voice cracking.

"I could... I could let him be in control. Completely. No limits. He wants me to crawl. I'll crawl. He wants me to beg. I'll beg. If that shows him that he matters more."

Michael's gaze flicked to her, skeptical.

"And?"

She swallowed.

"I could write it all down," she whispered. "Every detail of what happened. Every thought I had. So he never has to wonder."

Michael didn't respond.

Anne looked smaller than he'd ever seen her.

"I could... tell our friends. Or my parents. So it's never hidden. So everyone knows it was me who broke this, not you."

Her voice was shaking.

"And I could... I could let you choose how we have sex. When. Where. However you need it. To feel like you've reclaimed something."

Michael's jaw clenched.

"Those are all... gestures," he said. "Performances. What makes you think I'll believe you're not faking?"

Her eyes filled.

"Because I'm telling you right here I'm terrified. I'm ashamed. I'm humiliated. But I'd rather you know everything... every ugly part... than pretend I didn't want it."

Silence.

Dr. Berman waited.

Anne took a shuddering breath.

"And maybe," she whispered, "we could... go away. Somewhere no one knows us. Try to... start over. Just us. No reminders."

Michael studied her.

"You think a trip will fix this?"

"No," she said quickly. "I don't think anything fixes this. But maybe if we're somewhere else, you can look at me without seeing him."

Michael didn't respond.

Dr. Berman looked at him carefully.

"Michael. You've been clear that you want something real. Not performative. What would that look like to you?"

His voice was raw.

"I want her to want me, Me. Like she wanted him. I want to see her look at me with hunger. I want her to prove she still craves me. That I'm not some safe, boring fallback."

"I want her to see me."

Anne tried to speak but her voice broke.

Michael turned to her, eyes wet.

"Can you do that?"

She shook her head helplessly.

"I don't know. I don't know if I can make myself feel that again."

Michael sat back slowly, like a man punched in the chest.

"Then why are we here?" he whispered.

Dr. Berman spoke very softly.

"Anne... if you can't give him certainty he's desired, this will die. Even if you stay married. It will die."

Anne pressed her hands to her mouth, weeping silently.

Michael leaned forward, voice shaking.

"If you can't do that... if you can't look me in the eye and say I'm enough, better even, now, then maybe you should just leave."

Her voice came out ragged.

"I don't want to leave."

"Then find a way," he said, low and furious. "Find a way to make me believe you're not pretending."

Dr. Berman let the silence settle, heavy and suffocating.

Finally, Anne whispered, broken:

"I'll try anything. I'll do anything. I just... don't know if it will ever be enough."

Michael closed his eyes.

"I guess we'll find out," he said.

The Island

The plane touched down in the early afternoon.

The resort was all white sand and blue water, palm trees waving in the salt breeze. Couples walked hand in hand along boardwalks, lay on the beach, laughed in the bars.

Michael and Anne... didn't, they barely spoke.

Their suite overlooked the ocean. The bellboy left them in silence.

Anne sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her hands.

Michael went to the balcony, watching the surf.

She cleared her throat.

"Michael."

He didn't turn.

"I want this to work," she said softly.

He let out a sigh that sounded like it hurt.

She stood up, voice trembling.

"I'll do anything."

He finally turned, eyes dull.

"You keep saying that" he said. "But it always sounds like you're negotiating."

She swallowed.

"Then don't ask," she whispered. "Just take it."

His eyes narrowed.

"You want to give me the fantasy he got? The slut you wouldn't be for me before?"

She flinched at the word but didn't look away.

"Yes," she said. "If that's what it takes."

Michael didn't move.

Finally, he walked back inside and shut the balcony door.

"Fine," he said.

That Night

Dinner was awkward, they sat like two people forced to eat together because the restaurant was full.

They strolled along the beach on the way back.

She held his hand, light, timid. He let her.

The bed was wide. Cool sheets. Comfortable pillows.

Michael sat at the foot, watching her.

She trembled.

"I'm your... your slut."

His eyes were dark.

"Mean it."

She closed her eyes.

"I'm your slut," she whispered, voice cracking.

He stood, stepped close, grabbing her chin roughly.

"Open your eyes."

She obeyed. Tears spilled.

"Smile like you did for him."

She tried. It was awful. Ugly.

He dropped her face.

She climbed onto the bed, naked, trembling.

Michael stared.

Her legs fell open.

She tried to sound wanton.

"Please fuck me. Use me."

Michael turned away, jaw tight.

She reached between her legs, pretending to touch herself.

He closed his eyes.

"You're faking it," he said flatly.

She froze.

He shook his head.

"You think I don't know you? Don't know what you look like when you want it?"

She sobbed.

He pointed at her.

"This is you pretending. And you're fucking terrible at it."

She curled up, covering herself.

Michael's voice was raw.

"I wanted you. I still want you. But not like this. Not like some whore trying to wipe away her guilt."

She cried harder.

He left the room, slamming the door behind him.

The Next Day

They didn't speak all morning.

Breakfast was silent.

Anne tried to touch his hand. He pulled away.

By afternoon he was gone from the suite.

Anne wandered the beach alone.

When she came back, he was sitting on the balcony, staring at the horizon.

She sat next to him.

"I can't fix it," she whispered.

He didn't answer.

She wiped her eyes.

"I don't know what you want."

He didn't look at her.

"I want to believe you want me," he said. "Not to see you faking it because you're scared to lose me."

"I want you to really see me"

She nodded miserably.

That Night -- The Resort Bar

Anne was drunk.

Not staggering... but loose, sloppy, warm.

The bar was lit with string lights. Music played soft and sad.

Michael had refused to come.

"Do what you want," he'd said coldly.

So she went alone.

At the bar, she nursed a cocktail.

She felt ugly. Dirty. Unwanted.

Then a man sat next to her. Handsome. Smiling. Tanned.

They talked.

He made her laugh.

He told her she was beautiful.

She shook her head.

"No I'm not. I'm... I'm garbage."

He touched her knee.

"You don't look like garbage to me."

Her stomach fluttered.

She thought of Michael's disgust. His eyes calling her whore.

Her own voice echoed in her head: I'm your slut.

She let the man's hand slide higher.

"Come on," he whispered.

Anne hesitated.

Then she drained her drink and nodded.

Outside the Bar

They stumbled onto the sand behind the bar.

The wind was warm.

He pushed her against a palm tree.

She moaned.

His hand was under her skirt.

She didn't stop him.

He kissed her hard.

She whimpered, legs parting.

He unzipped his shorts.

She gasped when he entered her.

She wrapped her legs around his waist.

She moaned his name.

The Balcony

Michael had come looking for her.

He saw them.

Lit by the bar's warm glow.

Anne. Skirt hiked up.

Arms around the man's neck.

Head thrown back, mouth open in pleasure.

Moaning.

He didn't say a word.

He didn't shout.

Didn't run.

He turned.

Walked back up to the resort.

Packed his bag.

Called a taxi to the airport.

Left his wedding ring on the nightstand.

And flew home alone.

The Departure

The sun was brutal on Anne's face when she woke.

She was lying in a strange bed in a stranger's bungalow.

She felt sick immediately.

Her panties were on the floor. Sand in the sheets. Her bra askew.

The man beside her was snoring lightly.

She sat up, gagging.

Her head pounded.

Oh God.

What did I do?

She scrambled to dress, ignoring his sleepy protest. She staggered out barefoot, nearly tripping down the steps.

The resort was quiet in the early light.

Her suite wasn't far. She ran.

The door was ajar.

Inside was silent.

No suitcase.

No Michael.

Her heart lurched.

"Michael?" she croaked.

No answer.

She searched the bedroom. Empty.

The bathroom. Empty.

His ring sat on the nightstand.

A single, mocking testament.

She picked it up. Her vision blurred.

She sank to the floor, hugging her knees, sobbing so hard her body shook.

She called him before even packing.

Straight to voicemail.

She tried again. Again.

No answer.

She booked the next available flight, her fingers trembling so badly she dropped her phone twice.

She had to clean up before leaving. Vomited once in the bathroom. Washed her face.

The whole time she couldn't stop hearing her own voice last night.

Please. Yes. Harder. Don't stop.

God, what had he seen?

The Ride Home

She cried silently on the plane.

People stared.

She didn't care.

When they landed she turned on her phone immediately.

No new messages.

She called.

Voicemail.

She texted.

"Michael please talk to me."

"I'm sorry."

"Please."

"Please don't leave me."

Nothing.

Home

The house was cold.

Half-empty.

His clothes gone.

Drawers emptied.

She ran from room to room like a madwoman.

His toothbrush gone.

The photo from their honeymoon missing from the frame.

But their wedding photo was still there--face down on the floor where it had fallen.

She sank to her knees and screamed.

Days Later

She didn't hear from him.

Not a word.

She texted. Called. Emailed.

Nothing.

Finally, an email arrived.

From: Michael.

"Anne. Stop calling. I've spoken to a lawyer. We'll figure out the division of property soon. Please don't come here."

She sobbed at her kitchen table, reading it over and over.

Then she typed:

"Can we at least finish therapy? Please. I'm begging. Don't throw us away without trying. Even if you hate me."

No reply that day.

She didn't sleep that night.

The Lawyer's Advice

Michael sat stiffly across from his lawyer.

Middle-aged man. Professional.

The lawyer was reading through Michael's notes.

"So she's begging for more therapy?"

Michael's jaw was tight.

"Yeah."

The lawyer nodded.

"You can refuse. Or you can agree. Honestly? It won't save the marriage. But if you want the divorce process to go smoothly, showing you tried good-faith reconciliation never hurts. Especially if there's any property or legal wrangling coming."

Michael's eyes were cold.

"She fucked another guy on our 'fix-it' trip."

The lawyer didn't flinch.

"Then therapy's not for her. It's for you. It shows the court you're calm. Willing to try. Judges like that. Mediators too. Lowers the temperature."

Michael exhaled.

The Call

Anne's phone rang at 3 p. m.

She nearly dropped it.

"Michael?"

His voice was dead.

"Yeah."

"Oh my God. Michael please... "

He cut her off.

"I talked to my lawyer. I'll do therapy."

She blinked.

"You... you will?"

"Don't get excited," he snapped. "I'm not coming back. I'm not moving back in. I'll go to the sessions. That's it."

She swallowed.

"Why?"

A long silence.

"Legal advice," he said flatly.

She felt her heart crumple.

"Legal?"

"Yeah," he said coldly. "Looks good when you're splitting shit up. Shows I tried."

Her tears burned.

"But it's something," she whispered desperately. "It's not nothing."

He snorted.

"Don't fool yourself."

Silence.

She forced herself to speak.

"When?"

"I'll talk to Dr. Berman. Schedule something. I'll let you know."

He hung up without another word.

Anne Alone

She sat there holding the dead phone to her ear.

The house was so quiet it roared.

She dropped the phone to the floor.

Her body curled in on itself.

She pressed her forehead to her knees.

The sobs came slow at first, then like convulsions.

She couldn't breathe.

The ring he'd left behind sat on the table.

Mocking her.

She reached for it with shaking fingers.

Slipped it on her thumb.

Then took it off again, sobbing harder.

She didn't know how to fix this.

She didn't know if there was a fix.

But therapy was all she had left.

Even if he only did it to prepare for the end.

The Return to Therapy

The office was exactly the same.

Soft beige walls. Quiet ticking clock. Framed diplomas. A safe space.

But nothing felt safe anymore.

Anne sat clutching a wad of tissues.

Michael sat stiffly in the other chair, arms crossed, eyes dead.

Dr. Berman sat between them in her chair, notepad in her lap.

She looked at Michael.

"Thank you for agreeing to come back."

He didn't respond.

Anne sniffled.

"I'm glad you're here," she whispered.

Michael didn't even look at her.

The silence stretched.

Dr. Berman cleared her throat.

"Michael... why don't you start. You said you had questions you needed answered."

He shifted, jaw tight.

"Yeah. I have questions."

He turned finally, meeting Anne's eyes.

His voice was quiet, cutting.

"Why did you do it again?"

Anne swallowed.

He didn't wait.

"Not just cheat, Anne. Cheat on the trip to fix our marriage. After you cried and begged and said you'd do anything. After you promised me you'd make it right."

Anne's eyes filled immediately.

"Michael, please... "

"FUCKING ANSWER!" he snapped.

Dr. Berman raised a hand gently.

"Michael... let her speak."

Anne's voice trembled.

"I don't know."

Michael let out a harsh, humourless laugh.

"That's not good enough."

She shook her head, tears spilling.

"I was drunk. I was humiliated. I felt worthless. I felt like you hated me."

He barked another laugh.

"You were worthless in that moment. You earned my hate. And you decided the solution was to fuck another guy? On the beach?"

She sobbed.

"I didn't plan it!"

"Oh, that's better," he said coldly. "You didn't plan it. You just spread your legs for a stranger while your husband was trying not to kill himself in the room you were supposed to share."

Anne broke down, pressing the tissues to her eyes.

Dr. Berman was calm, but firm.

"Anne, he needs to understand why you made that choice. If you want to stay married, you need to face it honestly."

Anne sobbed harder.

"I wanted to feel wanted," she choked. "I felt so disgusting, so hated. I just wanted to forget for one night that I was... this monster." "I wanted to be seen"

Michael's face was stone.

"So you punished me by making it worse."

She shook her head frantically.

"No! I didn't want to punish you! I wasn't thinking about you... I was trying not to think about anything."

His eyes flashed.

"Exactly. You weren't thinking about me. At all."

She let out a strangled wail.

"I know! I'm sorry! I'm so fucking sorry!"

He leaned forward.

"Then why are you even here, Anne? Why do you want to stay married? Clearly you don't want me. You can't even fuck me without faking it. But you went with him. Easily. Drunk or not, you wanted it. Why the hell do you want me?"

She shook her head, sobbing.

"Because I love you!"

He let out another cold laugh.

"Bullshit."

Dr. Berman held up her hand.

"Anne. Stop. Breathe. Answer him."

Anne sobbed raggedly.

"I love you, Michael. I do. I don't know how to prove it anymore. I don't know how to fix this. But I don't want anyone else. I don't want to live without you."

He was shaking his head slowly.

"Except you can. You did. Twice. Easily. Happily."

She covered her face.

Michael's voice was colder than ever.

"What did you expect would happen, Anne? On that trip. What was your plan after you fucked that guy behind the bar? You thought you'd crawl back to the suite, slide into bed, and we'd keep playing house?"

She couldn't answer.

He pressed on, voice rising.

"Did you think I wouldn't find out? Or did you just not care?"

She shook her head violently.

"I didn't want you to find out!"

"Because you knew it would end us," he said.

She sobbed.

Dr. Berman leaned forward.

"Anne. He's asking something important. Why did you want to come back at all? After you did it again?"

Anne tried to breathe.

Her voice cracked.

"Because even after that... even after everything... I still wanted to be yours. I still wanted to be your wife." "Still wanted you to see me."

Michael spat, "My wife? My wife doesn't spread her legs for strangers while I'm trying to forgive her for the first time she did it."

"I have seen you and that's the problem"

She broke down completely.

Dr. Berman waited.

Michael's voice was ragged, trembling with rage and pain.

"You're here now begging me to try again. But tell me the truth. If I take you back, if I let you in my bed, how do I know you're not picturing him? Or the asshole from the bar? How do I know you're not wishing it was someone else because they made you feel wanted in ways I don't?" ... "because they made you feel seen"

Anne hiccupped.

"I don't know how to make you believe me," she whispered.

Michael shook his head.

"That's the only thing I ever needed. For you to want me, see me, and you can't even pretend anymore."

She sobbed harder.

Dr. Berman finally spoke.

"Anne... do you hear what he's telling you?"

She nodded miserably.

Dr. Berman was calm.

"He doesn't want your guilt. Or your promises. He wants your desire. Your honest desire for him. That's what was destroyed."

Anne choked.

"I don't know how to get it back," she whispered.

Michael's eyes were red, but dry.

"That's the answer, isn't it?" he said. "You can't."

The session ended in silence.

Michael walked out without looking back.

Anne stayed behind, shaking with tears.

The Next Session

Michael was already in the office when Anne arrived.

He sat stiffly in the corner chair, arms folded, jaw clenching and unclenching.

He didn't even look at her when she walked in.

She hesitated at the door, wringing her hands.

"Hi," she whispered.

Nothing.

Dr. Berman gestured.

"Come in. Sit down."

Anne sat on the edge of the sofa, tissues already in hand.

The therapist looked at both of them.

"Last time was very raw," she said evenly. "But I'm glad you both agreed to come back. Even if this is painful."

Michael let out a low, bitter laugh.

"Oh, it's painful all right."

Anne flinched.

Dr. Berman turned to him.

"Michael. You told me on the phone you had new things you needed to address. Please share them now."

He finally turned his head toward Anne.

His eyes were pure venom.

"Why don't you tell her, Anne?"

Anne's voice cracked.

"I don't know what you mean."

His lip curled.

"Oh really? You don't know about telling everyone? My parents? Your friends? My friends?"

She swallowed.

"I told them the truth," she whispered.

"Yeah," he snarled. "The truth. That you fucked someone else while married to me. That I fucking let you do it. That you went on a 'fix-it' trip and fucked another random guy for good measure. That you're so sorry."

She flinched.

"I had to," she insisted. "They asked why you moved out. Why you wouldn't talk to me. I didn't want to lie anymore."

He shook his head slowly.

"You didn't just tell them. You confessed. Like it was noble. Like you're some fucking martyr for honesty. You humiliated me. You made me a goddamn cuckold in front of everyone we know."

She started crying.

"I didn't mean to humiliate you," she whimpered. "I thought you wanted me to be honest."

"I wanted you to be honest with me," he snapped. "Not broadcast my humiliation to the entire world." "Even then you weren't honest, I. Did. Not. Let. You. Do. It. You deluded cunt"

Dr. Berman held up her hand.

"Anne. Why did you tell so many people? Why not keep it private?"

Anne sobbed.

"I didn't want secrets anymore! I thought if I admitted everything... maybe he'd see I was serious about changing. About being honest."

Michael let out another scornful laugh.

"Yeah, you're real serious. That's why you were seen at dinner with him last night."

The words dropped like a bomb.

Anne froze.

Dr. Berman blinked once, eyes narrowing.

"Anne. Is that true?"

Anne's voice was tiny.

"Yes."

Michael's chair scraped as he shifted, fists white-knuckled.

"Your first lover," he spat. "The one you left me for that night. The reason we're here at all."

Anne's tears fell faster.

"I wasn't sleeping with him," she said quickly.

Michael barked, "Oh, well that's comforting!"

Dr. Berman held up her palm.

"Stop. Anne... tell us exactly what happened."

Anne swallowed, voice shaking.

"He reached out. Said he heard what happened. That he felt terrible for what he did to us. He wanted to apologize."

Michael's face twisted.

"Apologize? Over dinner? Wine? You dressed up for it, Anne."

She pressed the tissues to her face.

"I just... I wanted closure. I wanted to tell him to his face that he ruined everything. That I hate what we did. That I hate him."

Michael sneered.

"Did you tell him that before or after the second glass of wine?"

She choked on a sob.

"It wasn't like that!"

Dr. Berman's voice was low.

"Anne. Why did you agree to meet him? Knowing how it would look? Knowing how Michael would feel?"

Anne's shoulders shook.

"I don't know," she whispered. "I thought... maybe if I faced it, it would stop haunting us. That if I told him off, it would be over. That I could prove to Michael, I didn't want him."

Michael laughed once, ugly and sharp.

"Did you tell him you didn't want him?"

Anne wiped her eyes.

"I tried."

He slammed his palm against the arm of his chair.

"Tried? TRIED?!"

She crumpled further.

"I didn't want to fight. I didn't want a scene. I didn't know what to say."

Michael's voice went low and lethal.

"So you sat there smiling. Let him apologize. Probably let him feel good about himself. Made sure he knew you're still sweet Anne who'll forgive anyone."

She was sobbing outright.

Dr. Berman spoke firmly.

"Anne. This is important. Did you want to see him? Honestly."

Anne gulped.

A long silence.

Finally, in a wrecked whisper:

"Part of me did."

Michael let out a strangled sound--half laugh, half sob.

Dr. Berman pressed.

"Why?"

Anne's voice was shredded.

"Because I wanted someone to tell me I'm not a monster. That I'm not beyond fixing. He said he was sorry. He said I didn't deserve this. For a second, I just wanted to feel like I wasn't toxic." ... "I wanted someone to see me"

Michael's voice cracked.

"You are toxic ... and you were seen, by everyone"

She sobbed harder.

"I know," she whispered.

Silence.

Dr. Berman looked between them.

"Michael. What do you want right now? This minute."

He didn't hesitate.

"I want to know why she wants to stay married to me if she can't even stop meeting the men she fucked."

Anne hiccupped.

"Because I don't want them. I want you."

He shook his head.

"Bullshit."

Dr. Berman held up her hand.

"Anne. Don't answer yet. Think. Why do you want this marriage? Be honest. Even if it's ugly."

Anne's voice cracked.

"Because I don't want to be alone. Because I hate myself and you're the only person who ever really loved me. Because even now I'd do anything to make you stay."

Michael didn't speak.

He just stared at her with dead eyes.

Dr. Berman took a deep breath.

"That's where we are. Anne, you need to decide if you're actually ready to change your behaviour. No more secrets. No more 'just closure' meetings. You have to prove you mean it. And Michael ..."

"I don't think there's anything to prove anymore." He said cutting her off.

Anne wailed.

Dr. Berman watched them both.

And the clock ticked on in the heavy, suffocating silence.

The Separation Agreement

The envelope sat on Anne's kitchen table for days.

Thick. Heavy.

Stamped with the Law firm's name in black ink.

She didn't open it at first.

She didn't have to.

She knew exactly what it was.

When she did open it, she broke.

Separation Agreement.

Outlined in cold legal language.

Division of property.

Financial disclosures.

Optional counselling for amicable resolution.

Nothing about forgiveness.

Nothing about love.

She signed nothing.

Instead, she called Dr. Berman, sobbing.

The final Session

Anne arrived first.

Puffy eyes. Hair unwashed.

She sat curled on the sofa, knees pulled tight.

When Michael arrived, he walked in briskly, dropped his coat on the chair, and sat without looking at her.

He said nothing.

Anne sniffled wetly.

"Hi," she tried.

Michael didn't even blink.

Dr. Berman cleared her throat.

"I understand Michael's Solicitor has sent over a formal separation agreement."

Michael's eyes flickered, but his voice was calm.

"Yes."

Anne burst into tears.

"I haven't signed it!" she wailed. "I'm not going to!"

Michael's jaw tightened.

"Yet," he muttered.

She turned to him, desperate.

"I won't! I'm not giving up!"

He finally looked at her--and the contempt on his face made her flinch.

"Funny," he said icily. "You didn't give up on him either."

Anne sobbed.

Dr. Berman raised a hand.

"Stop. Both of you. Anne ... we need to deal with what happened last week. Specifically, your dinner. Tell the truth. All of it."

Anne shook her head, tears streaming.

"I told you ... it was just dinner ..."

Michael snorted.

Dr. Berman cut her off.

"Anne. Enough. I've spoken with Michael outside of session. He has information you did not share here last time. Is it true that you slept with him again?"

Anne broke into hiccupping sobs.

"I... it wasn't supposed to happen ..."

Michael's laugh was a bark. "Answer her."

Anne squeezed her eyes shut.

"Yes," she choked.

Silence.

Michael looked sick.

Dr. Berman's mouth was a grim line.

"So, let's be clear," she said flatly. "You cheated on your husband again. After your second betrayal. After promising us, in this room, you'd stop. After he moved out. After he sent you the separation papers. You still went to bed with the first man who broke this marriage."

Anne was shaking.

"I'm sorry," she moaned.

Michael slammed his hand on the armrest.

"Sorry? You're sorry? Why even come here? Why even bother?"

She sobbed harder.

"Because I want you! I want us! I don't want to lose you!"

Michael's face was twisted with disgust.

"You fucked him. Last week. And you think you're saving us?"

Anne rocked back and forth.

Dr. Berman's voice was cold for the first time ever.

"Anne. Why did you do it?"

Anne hiccupped.

"I don't know!"

"Not good enough," Dr. Berman snapped.

Anne jumped.

The therapist leaned forward.

"Stop crying for one second and think. Why? Why him? Why then? Why, while begging your husband to forgive you, did you go back to the man who ruined your marriage?"

Anne trembled, snot and tears all over her face.

"Because he wanted me," she whispered finally.

Michael's jaw tightened.

Anne swallowed.

"Because I felt... safe. Safe to be bad. I didn't have to be anything else. With him I could just be trash. I didn't have to try to be a good wife. He didn't care ... and he saw, he saw me"

Michael let out a breath like he'd been punched.

Anne wailed.

"I'm sorry! I hate myself! I hate what I did! I want to change!"

Michael's voice was poison.

"Change into what? My wife who fucks whoever as long as they want her?"

She sobbed.

Dr. Berman looked at her sharply.

"Anne. Why do you want to stay married? Truly. Not the rehearsed answer. The real one."

Anne hiccupped.

"Because I love him. Because I don't want to be alone. Because I don't want to see him with someone else. Because I'm nothing without him."

Michael exhaled shakily.

Dr. Berman pressed.

"And how do you think you can possibly fix this?"

Anne's face crumpled.

"I'll do anything," she moaned.

Michael scoffed.

"Anything? You said that before. Then you went and fucked him again."

She shook her head frantically.

"No, I mean it now. I'll give you hall passes. Fuck whoever you want. Bring a girlfriend home. I'll watch. I'll cheer. I don't care!"

Michael stared at her in revulsion.

She kept going.

"I'll get it tattooed on me 'Property of Michael.' I'll brand myself if you want. I'll bring my sister in if you want. Anything. Please don't leave me."

Michael recoiled.

"Jesus Christ."

Anne was bawling.

"I don't care what it is. Just tell me what you want. I'll do it. Please. Don't make me sign it. Don't leave me."

Michael's eyes were red, but no tears fell.

He shook his head slowly.

"I don't want your fucking sister. I don't want you on your knees begging. I wanted you. My wife. The one who used to smile when I came home. The one who used to want only me."

She hiccupped.

"I can be her again!"

Michael's voice cracked.

"No, you can't," he whispered. "You killed her."

Anne sobbed so hard she nearly fell from the sofa.

Dr. Berman sat back slowly, looking from one to the other.

Quietly she said:

"Michael. This isn't a marriage anymore. It's hostage negotiations. Anne. You're offering sexual humiliation, bodily mutilation, anything, because you don't want to be alone. That isn't love."

Anne shook her head frantically.

"It's all I have!" she wailed.

Michael stood abruptly.

He didn't even look at her.

"Have your Solicitor call mine," he said.

And he walked out.

Anne collapsed onto the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

Dr. Berman just watched her, weary and sad.

Eight Months Later

The house was quiet.

Michael sat at the kitchen table in the dim glow of the overhead lamp, reading over the divorce papers for what felt like the hundredth time.

His Solicitor had everything ready.

All he needed to do was sign.

He couldn't.

Eight months. Eight months since he walked out of that therapy office.

He hadn't seen Anne since.

Not in person.

But he'd heard things.

Rumours.

His friends told him. His family told him.

Anne out at bars.

Anne going home with strangers.

Anne seen stumbling, glassy-eyed, at 3 a. m.

He told himself it wasn't his problem anymore.

He kept telling himself.

The Knock

It was 2:17 a. m.

Michael was half-asleep on the couch when he heard it.

A soft, scraping knock.

He frowned.

It came again.

He got up, confused, heart already hammering.

He opened the door.

And nearly recoiled.

Anne.

Or what was left of her.

She was barefoot, clothes torn.

Bruises all over her face.

Split lip. Swollen eye.

Hair matted with blood.

She smelled like sweat, urine, alcohol.

Her eyes barely focused.

"N-Michael," she slurred.

She took one step forward and collapsed onto him.

He caught her reflexively.

And felt her tremble.

Her weight was nothing.

Skin and bones.

He could see needle marks on her arms.

He froze.

For half a second, he thought of letting her slide to the floor.

Leaving her there.

But he didn't.

He lifted her instead.

The ER

They didn't even make him wait.

One look at Anne and they rushed her back.

Michael sat in the harsh fluorescent waiting area, head in his hands.

The nurse came out with a clipboard.

"Are you family?"

He swallowed.

"Her husband."

Technically still true.

She nodded grimly.

"She's stable. She has been sexually assaulted, repeatedly. She has defensive wounds, cracked ribs, a concussion. There are signs of repeated drug use. We're running tox screens."

Michael felt something inside him die.

The nurse was gentle, but firm.

"She's going to need medication, a rape kit. We need consent. But she's not fully conscious yet. We need Admissions paperwork filled out, her full details, name, address, Next of Kin etc. Also her insurance and Medicare details, Plus, the Police will want to speak with you"

He nodded numbly.

Later

Anne was in a hospital bed, hooked up to several IVs.

Her face was swollen.

She had stitches in her lip.

One eye was nearly swollen shut.

He sat in the chair beside her, elbows on his knees, head bowed.

She stirred.

A whimper escaped her cracked lips.

"M-Michael?"

He looked up.

Her one good eye filled with tears.

"I'm s-sorry," she slurred.

He closed his eyes.

"Stop," he rasped.

She sobbed weakly.

"I didn't know where else to go."

He couldn't speak.

He just sat there, as she cried.

Treatment

Medicare paid the Hospital; she didn't have her insurance anymore.

He paid for the extended tests.

He paid for the medication.

He paid for the detox program.

He signed the forms when she couldn't.

She screamed at the nurses.

Begged him to take her home.

Screamed at him when he wouldn't.

Then would break down sobbing, begging him not to leave her.

He didn't visit every day.

But he came.

He sat in group therapy sessions once, silent in the back.

Watched her tremble and stutter through confessions about men she didn't remember.

About taking pills, she didn't ask the name of.

About wanting to die.

He watched her sob and call herself "garbage."

He felt sick.

At her.

At himself.

Discharge

When the social worker asked where she would live, Anne looked lost.

Her eyes darted to Michael.

He didn't say anything for a long time.

Defeated, he exhaled.

"She can stay with me."

Back Home

He set ground rules immediately.

No drugs.

No random men.

She would go to outpatient therapy three times a week.

If she missed even one, she was out.

She just nodded, too exhausted to argue.

She slept most of the first few days.

He heard her crying at night behind the closed door.

She vomited a lot at first.

He left water by her door.

The Spare Room

It wasn't her room anymore.

The wedding photos were gone.

Just a plain twin bed.

A dresser with nothing in it but clothes he'd bought for her at Kmart.

She didn't complain.

She didn't ask for more.

She just existed there.

One Night

He heard her shuffle into the living room.

He was on the couch, reading.

She stood there in oversized sweatpants, arms like twigs.

"Michael?"

He didn't look up.

"Go back to bed."

She swallowed.

"I... I need to say thank you."

He turned a page.

She sniffled.

"For everything. For not... leaving me there."

He didn't answer.

Her voice cracked.

"I know you hate me."

He did look at her then.

Her eye still blackened. Lip stitched.

"Yeah," he said softly.

She flinched.

"But I'm here. Aren't I?"

She burst into tears.

He didn't get up.

Didn't hug her.

He just let her cry.

And when she was done, she wiped her face on her sleeve and shuffled back to the spare room.

Michael sat in the quiet.

Staring at the wall.

And for the first time in months, he let himself cry too.

Cold Living

The house was quiet again.

Too quiet.

Anne moved like a ghost in the mornings.

She got up early for her outpatient therapy sessions, showered, dressed in cheap but clean clothes Michael had bought her.

She didn't try to look pretty.

She didn't try to flirt.

She didn't touch makeup.

Most mornings she left before Michael even got up.

He'd hear the door close gently behind her.

And then he'd lie there in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering why he hadn't just let her go.

Therapy

Her outpatient program was grim but consistent.

Three times a week.

Group sessions.

Individual counselling.

Trauma work.

She came home exhausted, eyes red, voice ragged.

She never volunteered details.

Michael didn't ask.

But he listened through the door sometimes when she was on the phone with her sponsor.

"I feel like such a waste."

"I want to use. I want to just be numb."

"I hate remembering."

"I don't know how to live with what I did to him."

The Spare Room

She kept it immaculate.

Clean sheets.

Bed always made.

Her only personal touch was a battered AA/NA book on the nightstand.

Michael had peeked in once when she wasn't home.

She had sticky notes on the wall.

"Just today."

"You are not trash."

"You can't make it right, but you can stop making it worse." "You are seen"

He closed the door quietly.

Meals

They rarely ate together.

He cooked sometimes.

Left her a plate in the microwave.

She always washed the dishes.

One night he found her scrubbing the sink so hard she'd rubbed her knuckles raw.

He watched from the hallway.

She didn't know he was there.

She just kept crying softly as she cleaned.

Small Talk

They didn't have real conversations.

Just clipped logistics.

"I'm leaving for work."

"Therapy at 9. Back by lunch."

"Groceries are in the fridge."

"Okay."

Sometimes she tried more.

"I... um... I cleaned the bathroom."

"Fine."

"Thanks for... for everything."

He'd just nod, refusing to look at her.

The Sponsor

One evening he heard her outside on the porch, talking on the phone.

He wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but she was crying, voice carrying through the screen.

"I hate being here."

Silence.

"I hate seeing his face. Knowing what he thinks of me."

Pause.

"... No, I deserve it. I do. He's right to hate me."

Longer silence.

"I don't know if I can ever make it right. I don't know if I should even try. Maybe the best thing would be if I left and never came back."

"If I can't make it right, how do I help him, he's suffering so much and now he is forced to help me"

Pause.

"No, he doesn't, he didn't deserve anything, he didn't deserve any of this, he's being so strong for me"

Michael sat on the couch inside, staring at the blank TV.

His throat was tight.

Glimpses

One morning she surprised him.

He came into the kitchen to find her humming quietly.

Humming.

The tune died the second she saw him.

Her face fell.

She looked terrified, like she'd been caught stealing.

"Sorry," she whispered.

She fled to the spare room.

He stood there, coffee growing cold, hearing the muffled sobs behind the closed door.

He remembered the old Anne.

Laughing in their kitchen.

Dancing barefoot while she cooked.

Humming when she was happy.

Singing off-key just to make him smile.

It twisted something in him.

The Argument

It finally boiled over one night.

She came home late from therapy, eyes red.

He was at the table with his laptop.

She froze in the doorway.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"For what?" he asked coldly.

She flinched.

"For... for being late."

He closed the laptop with more force than necessary.

"That's what you're sorry for?"

She looked like a trapped animal.

"I'm... sorry for everything," she said hoarsely.

He stood.

He wasn't shouting.

But the words were knives.

"You're sorry you fucked strangers? Sorry you let them ruin us. Sorry you crawled to my door so high you didn't know your own name?"

She started to cry.

He advanced a step.

"Sorry you humiliated me. Made me watch you destroy the only good thing we had?"

She covered her face.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed.

"Look at me," he snapped.

She dropped her hands, tears streaking her hollow cheeks.

He saw the bruises that hadn't fully faded.

The new scars on her arms.

He felt something crack inside him.

His voice broke.

"Why did you do it?"

She just cried.

"I don't know how to be good," she whispered.

"I don't know how to be worth anything. I don't know how to love someone without destroying them. I don't know how to be seen"

He didn't know what to say.

So he just left the room.

The Next Morning

She was gone when he woke up.

Panic rose in him for one horrible moment.

Then he found the note on the counter.

"Group at 7. Back by 10. Didn't want to wake you. Thank you for letting me stay. I'll do better."

He crumpled it in his fist.

At Night

Sometimes he heard her crying.

He didn't go to her.

But he didn't put in earplugs either.

He just lay awake.

Listening.

Remembering.

Therapy Homework

One afternoon she knocked softly on his study door.

He looked up.

She was shaking, holding papers.

"My counsellor wants me to share these with you. If... if you want."

He eyed them.

"What is it?"

"Letters. To you. Apologies. Explanations. I wrote them in group."

He didn't move.

She trembled.

"Or I can throw them away. I just... wanted to offer."

He exhaled.

"Leave them."

She nodded, placed them on the desk.

She didn't try to hug him.

Didn't say more.

She just left quietly.

That Night

He sat there for hours.

Reading every shaky, ink-smeared page.

"I didn't want to hurt you."

"I wanted to be wanted. I wanted to forget how worthless I felt." "I wanted to be seen."

"I know I ruined everything."

"I know you'll never want me again."

"I don't expect forgiveness."

"I just want you to know you were the only person who ever really loved me." "the only person who truly saw me."

By the end his eyes were wet.

He set the pages down carefully.

And turned off the light.

Seeing Her

Michael sat at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, watching the grey dawn spread outside.

He heard the bathroom door creak open down the hall.

Footsteps.

Anne emerged quietly.

Clean hair pulled back. Sweatshirt, jeans, no makeup.

She hesitated when she saw him.

Then she offered a small, tentative smile.

"Morning."

He cleared his throat.

"Morning."

It wasn't friendly.

But it wasn't cold.

She exhaled like she'd been holding her breath.

Changes

It wasn't dramatic.

But it was real.

She went to therapy.

Every session.

She didn't miss.

She met with her sponsor twice a week.

She cooked dinner a couple nights.

Not flashy meals. Just... food.

He noticed her humming quietly sometimes when she didn't think he was listening.

She'd catch herself and go silent.

He didn't tease her.

But he listened.

Conversations

They still didn't talk much.

But it wasn't just transactional anymore.

One night she ventured:

"Um... work okay?"

He glanced up from his laptop.

"Fine."

She nodded.

Silence.

Then she tried again.

"I'm... I'm trying to get some job leads. My counsellor says it's time."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Doing what?"

She flushed.

"Anything. Waitressing. Reception. Doesn't matter. I just... I want to feel useful."

He stared at her.

She didn't squirm.

Didn't whine.

Didn't beg.

Just looked back, steady.

He nodded once.

"Good."

She smiled--small, tired.

But real.

The Psychologist

One afternoon, Anne came home with an envelope.

She hovered at his study door.

"Um... Dr. Patel wants to meet you. If you want."

He frowned.

"Why?"

She bit her lip.

"He thinks... it might help. Us. Me. Your understanding... why I did what I did."

He let out a slow breath.

"I don't need excuses, Anne."

She winced.

"It's not excuses. Just... context."

He studied her.

She didn't plead.

She just stood there.

Resigning he sighed.

"Okay."

Dr. Patel's Office

It was clinical, but warm.

Soft chairs. Diffused light.

Dr. Patel was a slim, calm man with kind eyes.

He greeted Michael with a firm handshake.

"Thank you for coming."

Michael sat stiffly.

Anne sat beside him, hands twisting in her lap.

She wouldn't meet his eyes.

Patel began gently.

"I know this is difficult for both of you. Anne asked me to share some of what we've worked on."

Michael snorted.

"Her excuses."

Patel didn't flinch.

"Not excuses. Explanations. There's a difference."

Michael didn't answer.

Patel continued.

"Anne has been suffering from clinical depression for years. Far more acutely for at least the last five years. Possibly even before you married."

He paused, holding Michael's gaze.

"This depression resulted from several episodes of abuse she suffered as a child and as a young teen, your marriage seems to have triggered the more acute depression"

Michael blinked.

He looked at her.

Anne shrank in her chair.

Patel went on.

"Untreated, depression can manifest in many ways. For Anne it meant profound self-loathing. Feeling she was not worthy of love. Impulsive behaviour. Mood swings. Attention seeking. Finally seeking validation through sex. Using drugs to escape her feelings of worthlessness. Self-destructiveness to confirm her own belief that she deserved pain."

Michael felt a sick swirl in his gut.

He whispered, "But she cheated on me."

Patel nodded.

"Yes. She did. That's real. That's hers to own. And she's doing that. But it wasn't about a lack of love for you. It was about hate for herself."

Michael shook his head slowly.

Anne spoke up, voice cracking.

"I didn't want to hurt you. I just... I didn't deserve you. You loved me, I didn't want you to but, I wanted someone to want me. I wanted to be seen, not by you, I wasn't worthy of you. I wanted to feel anything except how worthless I felt. And I ruined you. I ruined us."

Michael swallowed hard.

Patel watched them both.

"She's on medication now. Stabilizing. She's committed to therapy. She's doing the work. But she can't heal in a vacuum. She wanted you to know the truth."

Michael closed his eyes.

He felt hot tears prick.

He wiped them away roughly.

At Home

It was quiet on the drive back.

She didn't cry.

Didn't beg.

She just sat, rigid, looking out the window.

At home, she went to the spare room without a word.

Michael stood in the hall for a long time.

Finally, he knocked softly.

"Anne."

She opened the door immediately, eyes wide.

He swallowed.

"I... I want to try. Talking. Not tonight. But... soon."

Her lip trembled.

She nodded fiercely.

"Okay," she whispered.

Therapy Progress

She kept going.

He could see her changing.

Her eyes steadier.

Her voice calmer.

She didn't flinch every time he spoke.

She didn't apologize for existing every five minutes.

She got a part-time job at a cafe.

She brought home leftover muffins.

Left them on the counter with a sticky note:

"For you. No poison, promise."

He snorted despite himself.

Glimpses of the old Anne

One Saturday he found her in the backyard.

Shoes off.

Standing in the grass, eyes closed.

Face turned up to the pale sun.

Smiling.

Humming.

It was small.

Tentative.

But real.

For one moment she looked like the woman he'd fallen in love with.

And his heart twisted painfully in his chest.

He saw her.

The Conversation

One night they sat at the kitchen table.

Coffee between them.

Neither quite looking at the other.

She spoke first.

"Do you hate me?"

He didn't answer for a long time.

Finally he exhaled.

"Sometimes."

She nodded, tears welling.

"Do you still love me?"

He closed his eyes.

"Sometimes."

She covered her mouth, sobbing.

He didn't move.

But he didn't leave.

When she calmed, she wiped her face.

"Do you think... we could ever... fix us?"

His throat felt tight.

He shook his head slowly.

"I don't know."

She swallowed.

"Do you want to try?"

He met her eyes for the first time all night.

They were both wet.

He didn't speak.

Just reached across the table.

After a long moment, she put her hand in his.

They sat like that, shaking and crying.

Silent.

But connected.

Questions Without Answers

What did reconciliation even mean?

Could they ever be lovers again?

Could he ever touch her without seeing them?

Could she ever trust herself not to destroy everything again?

Could he forgive?

Could she?

Neither knew.

But they both agreed--quietly, hesitantly--to keep trying.

One day at a time.

Just today.

Almost Like Friends

Michael stirred his tea slowly, watching the swirl of milk combine.

Anne was at the counter, putting her lunch into a cheap insulated bag for work.

"Need a ride?" he asked.

She glanced at him, surprised.

Then she smiled... a real one.

"Thanks. But I'm good. Jess is picking me up."

He nodded.

She zipped the bag, hesitated, then touched his shoulder as she passed.

"Have a good day."

He didn't flinch.

Didn't say anything mean.

"Yeah. You too."

She left quietly.

Like Friends

They had found a weird rhythm.

Shared groceries.

Split cleaning.

Argued gently about bills.

She laughed once at a dumb meme he showed her.

He caught himself smiling back.

But it wasn't sexual.

They hadn't even hugged.

They were roommates.

Like friends... Almost.

He thought sometimes that it was the safest they'd ever been.

Michael's Therapy

He went every week.

Anne didn't know.

He sat on Dr. Laird's couch, arms folded, jaw tight.

"She destroyed me."

Dr. Laird just nodded.

"She did. And?"

Michael exhaled shakily.

"I want her back."

Laird leaned in.

"Why?"

Michael wiped his face roughly.

"Because she was my person. Even now ... when she's like this ... I still see her. The real her. I still love her."

Laird didn't flinch.

"So you have to decide what forgiveness looks like. Not forgetting. Not excusing. But choosing to see her as she is: a woman with a disease. A woman who was sick, not malicious."

Michael swallowed hard.

"She chose it. She did it."

"She chose to cope the wrong way. Because she was sick. Because she hated herself. Because she was drowning and took you with her. Does that make it okay? No. But it makes it human."

"Do you blame a cancer sufferer for their symptoms"

"You can't compare the decisions that a sick person makes with the decisions a rational person would make in the same situation. You cannot condemn a person's motivations because you don't understand them."

"What seemed malicious to you seemed rational to Anne... at least at the time"

Michael didn't answer.

But he kept going back.

The Letter

He found a note his pillow one night.

Dear Michael,

Thank you for letting me stay. For treating me like a human. For not letting me die.

I know it will never be enough, but I'm trying every day to be someone who deserves your kindness.

I'll never ask you to love me again. I don't expect it. But I will always love you.

Thank you for saving my life. Thank you for seeing me.

He sat with it for an hour, staring at the loops of her handwriting.

The Day

It was raining when he pulled into the driveway.

He felt immediately, something was wrong.

He saw the porch light on.

The front door slightly ajar.

He frowned, hurrying, through the rain, inside.

Packing

She was in the hallway, shoving clothes into her battered duffle bag.

Old shoes. Second-hand jeans.

She was crying quietly.

He dropped his keys with a clatter.

"What are you doing?"

She jumped, wiping her face.

"Nothing. I'm... I'm going."

"Going where?"

She wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Doesn't matter."

He felt cold.

"Anne. Stop."

She zipped the bag hard enough to rip the old plastic tooth.

She sniffled.

"I can't keep doing this to you."

He stared at her.

"Doing what?"

She squeezed her eyes shut.

"Making you see me every day. Making you remember. Making you hate me. You deserve better. You deserve someone who didn't ruin you."

He felt like all the air had left the room.

She hoisted the bag over her shoulder, wincing at the weight.

She finally met his eyes... red, raw, desperate.

"I can't fix it, Michael. I can't ever make it right.

So I'm going to go.

Let you be happy.

Let you have a real life.

Please don't stop me."

She turned toward the door.

Seeing Her

It hit him in the chest.

Like being punched.

He saw her hair, still damp from her shower.

He saw the clean clothes she had ironed.

He saw the lunch she'd left for tomorrow in the fridge.

He saw the stupid sticky note that just said "Don't forget to eat, idiot ❤️."

He saw the woman he'd loved.

He saw the girl who'd danced barefoot in his old T-shirt.

He saw the broken, bleeding stranger on his doorstep.

He saw the woman who'd tried to kill herself one fuck at a time.

He saw the woman who hadn't missed therapy in seven months.

He saw the woman who'd gotten a job.

He saw the woman who'd said she'd never ask him to love her again.

He saw the woman who he'd Loved.

He saw the woman he did love.

He saw her.

He swallowed.

"Anne."

She froze.

He felt his throat close.

His eyes burn.

"Stop."

She shook her head without turning.

"Please don't make this harder. Let me go. Just... let me go."

He exhaled raggedly.

"Anne. Stop."

She turned then.

Tears streaming.

"Why?" she whispered.

He felt everything break in him.

"I forgive you."

Her mouth fell open.

She dropped the bag with a thud.

She looked like she might collapse.

"Michael ..."

He stepped forward.

"I forgive you."

She sobbed, shaking her head.

"You can't. You can't. I don't deserve it. I'll ruin you again. I'm not safe ..."

He grabbed her arms, not hard, but enough to make her stop shaking.

"I know, you were sick."

She hiccupped.

"I'm still sick."

He nodded, tears spilling.

"I know. But you're trying. I see that, and... I see you... and I still love you."

She broke.

Just folded into him, sobbing into his chest.

He held her, hands in her hair, forehead against hers.

"I don't know how to fix us," he whispered.

She shook her head.

"I don't either."

He squeezed his eyes shut.

"Then let's not fix us. Let's just... be us. Broken. Together."

She sobbed harder.

Later

They sat on the floor in the hall.

Her bag forgotten.

She had her head on his shoulder.

He had his arm around her.

Neither spoke for a long time.

Finally she whispered, voice cracking:

"Do you really forgive me?"

He kissed her hair.

"Every day."

She nodded against him.

"Do you see me?"

He nodded.

"Every day"

"That's all I want. That's all I'll ever ask."

He rested his cheek against hers.

"That's all I can give."

They stayed like that until the rain stopped.