We are not going back

Chapter thirty

As soon as we landed back in D.C., the weight of everything hit me like a wall. The reality that Kamala and I were no longer in the bubble of the trip -where everything felt easier, safer- settled in my chest like a knot I couldn’t untangle. I knew it was time to face what was waiting for me at home.

Kamala had gave me a quick hug at the airport, a silent goodbye filled with the sadness of knowing that this couldn’t last, that I had to go back to my other life. “I’ll miss you,” she whispered, her fingers lingering on my wrist before she pulled away.

I had nodded, unable to speak. The truth was, I would miss her too, more than I wanted to admit. But what could I say? We both knew the situation- there was no escaping it.

***

When I walked through the front door of our house, Olivia was already waiting for me, sitting calmly on the couch. The house was too quiet, too neat, as if nothing had changed since I left, even though everything had.

“Hey,” she said, her voice neutral, maybe too neutral. “How was the trip?”

I forced a smile, though it felt stiff on my face. “Fine. Busy.”

She nodded, watching me carefully. I could feel her eyes on me, searching for something, but I wasn’t sure what. I didn’t have anything to give her, no explanations or reassurances. Just the silence between us.

“How was it here?” I asked, my voice coming out more curt than I intended. I set my suitcase by the door, not even bothering to unpack. It felt like a barrier between us, as if I couldn’t fully be here in this space anymore.

Olivia shrugged, leaning back into the cushions. “Quiet. Same as always.”

There was something about the way she said it, that quiet resignation, that twisted the knife in my chest. She was still wearing her wedding ring, I noticed, the diamond catching the light as she rested her hand on the arm of the couch. I wasn’t wearing mine. I had stopped putting it on after everything with Kamala started, even though I told myself it was just because I kept forgetting.

Neither of us said what we were really thinking. We didn’t ask the hard questions, didn’t confront the elephant in the room. It was easier this way, easier to pretend that everything was still the same, that nothing had really changed. But we both knew better.

“I made dinner,” she said after a long silence. “If you’re hungry.”

“Thanks,” I said, but my voice lacked enthusiasm. I wasn’t hungry. My stomach was too knotted with guilt and sadness to think about food. I stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure what to do, what to say.

Olivia turned off the TV, her eyes flicking back to me. “You look tired. Maybe you should get some rest.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I think I will.” My voice was hollow, like I was on autopilot. I couldn’t even muster the energy to argue or pretend.

As I turned to leave the room, I caught a glimpse of her face, and for a moment, I thought she might say something- ask me, confront me, tell me she knew what had happened. But she didn’t. She just watched me go, the silence between us growing thicker with every step.

Upstairs, I sat on the edge of the bed, the same bed we used to share. I hadn’t slept in it for months now, instead opting for the guest room, but it still felt like it was mocking me. The memories of what we used to be, of the love we used to share, pressed down on me like a weight I couldn’t shake.

I pulled my knees up to my chest, hugging them tightly as the guilt washed over me. Olivia had been my partner, my wife, my best friend. And now... now we were two people who couldn’t even have a real conversation. Two people who were too scared to admit that what we had was over.