CORRECTIONS OF THE PAST

These Days

The message came through just after sunrise.
Simple. Cold. Final.

"I need space."

For a long minute, I just stared at the screen, waiting for more — an explanation, a softened follow-up, anything that made it sound less permanent. But that was it. Four words that felt like a punch to the chest.

I reread it three times, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
What was I supposed to say? Space from what? From me? From us?

I set the phone down, rubbed my face, then picked it up again like it might've changed while I wasn't looking.
Nothing.

DND. I could tell by the single gray check next to the message when I tried calling. Straight to voicemail.

The silence that followed hit harder than any argument we'd ever had. Fatima was the kind of woman who'd go toe-to-toe with you if she felt something wasn't right. But silence? That meant something had broken. And this time, it wasn't just her patience — it was her peace.

I tossed the phone onto the couch and paced the living room, every step echoing in the emptiness of the house. Her scent was still everywhere — that soft vanilla she wore mixed with coconut oil and whatever lotion she'd started using lately. It clung to the pillows, the hallway, even the kitchen counter where she'd leave her half-empty coffee cup every morning.

And now, she was gone.

I tried to tell myself she just needed time. That she'd cool off, come back, and we'd do what we always did — brush it under the rug, start fresh, act like nothing happened. But something about the way she'd said it this time... felt different.

"I need space."

Not we need space.
Not give me a minute.
Just I.

I sat down on the couch, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor. The quiet was too loud. Normally, she'd be humming somewhere in the background, talking to the girls, or laughing at one of those corny reality shows she loved. Now, all I heard was the hum of the refrigerator and my own heartbeat reminding me that I'd done this — pushed her to this.

The truth is, I'd gotten comfortable. Too comfortable. Fatima carried the emotional weight for both of us, and I'd let her. Every time she brought something up, I'd tell her to "let it go." Every time she cried, I told her she was "overthinking." Every time she asked for more, I told her to "be patient."

And now she was gone, and all I could think was maybe she'd been patient enough.

I picked up the phone again and scrolled through our old messages — the long ones from when we first started talking, when everything was new. She used to send me paragraphs — long, deep messages about how she felt, about us, about her hopes. Somewhere along the line, those turned into short replies.
"Okay."
"Fine."
"Sure."

And now, just four words.

I ran my hands over my face again and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. I didn't want to admit it, but I missed her already — the way she filled every space she walked into. The sound of her voice when she was mad but trying not to show it. The way she'd press her lips together and tilt her head when she wanted me to apologize first.

I should've just said sorry more. Should've listened more. Should've fought for her peace the way she fought for our love.

I stood up, grabbed my keys, and headed to the garage. Maybe if I just drove, I could clear my head. But when I got in the car, her lip gloss was still in the cup holder. I picked it up, turned it over in my hand, and laughed bitterly. "You really left, huh?"

I started the engine, but I didn't move.

There's a special kind of silence that follows when you realize the person you took for granted finally meant it when they said enough. That silence doesn't yell or curse. It just lingers — heavy and still — reminding you that love without accountability is just ego wearing a disguise.

I wanted to text her again, to tell her I understood. But what was I going to say — come back so I can keep doing the same thing?

No.

She deserved the space she asked for. Even if it hurt.

So I sat there in the car, phone in my hand, and typed a message I knew she wouldn't see right away:

"I hear you. I'll give you space. Just know I never wanted to hurt you, Fatima."

I didn't send it right away. I just stared at it, thumb hovering, debating whether it even mattered anymore.

When I finally hit send, I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes.

Outside, the morning light was getting brighter, but inside, everything felt dim.

She said she needed space — I just didn't realize she meant from me.

I didn't plan to hurt her. Hell, I didn't even plan to fall for her.

Fatima came into my life at a time when everything else was falling apart — my marriage, my peace, my sense of direction. Everything that used to make sense just... didn't anymore.

At home, Karen and I were like two strangers sharing a roof. Same address, different worlds. We were raising  a kid, while I paid all the bills, pretending everything was fine because that's what grown folks do.

But I wasn't fine.

Every day felt like walking through a house full of noise and still feeling unheard. Every word between us turned into a defense or an accusation. And after a while, I stopped trying to talk because every conversation ended the same way — me angry, both of us exhausted.

Then Fatima showed up.

She wasn't supposed to mean anything. She was supposed to be a distraction, a breath of fresh air, someone who didn't look at me like I'd already failed before I started. She listened. She laughed. She looked at me like I was still a man worth something.

And I needed that. More than I want to admit.

It wasn't just physical — it was emotional. She saw parts of me I hadn't shown anyone in years. She made me feel alive again.

But she also saw the worst of me. The parts I tried to hide behind control, behind silence, behind anger. Every time she called me out, it reminded me of what I hated about myself — the lying, the avoidance, the half-truths.

So, when Fatima would ask questions or demand answers, it triggered me. Not because she was wrong — she was usually right — but because she forced me to look in the mirror.

And I didn't like what I saw.

It wasn't her fault. It was mine. But it was easier to take it out on her than admit that the man she believed in was breaking under his own bullshit

She'd say things like, "You don't listen," or "You shut down when I need you," and I'd brush it off. But what she didn't know was that I shut down because every word she spoke felt like truth — and truth hurts when you've built your peace on denial.

When she said she needed space, I knew it was coming. I felt it in the way she looked at me — like she'd already made peace with letting me go before I could even ask her to stay.

And maybe she should've let me go sooner.

Because loving me meant carrying the weight of
a broken promise— the one I made to her.

I wanted to be her protector, her peace, her everything. But how do you protect someone from you?

I'm thinking about that now — the moments I confused control with love, silence with strength, lust with healing. Fatima deserved better than the version of me that was half-present, half-broken, trying to fix his own emptiness through her.

And maybe that's why I treated Fatima the way I did. Not because she deserved it, but because she saw me too clearly. She saw the guilt, the weakness, the loneliness. She touched the part of me I'd buried under years of pretending.

It's strange how love can expose you like that — make you want to heal and hide all at once.

Now, sitting here with my phone dark and silent, I realize the damage I caused wasn't just in what I said or did. It was in what I didn't say. All the apologies left unsaid. All the "I'm sorrys" I swallowed because pride felt safer than vulnerability.