Coleton threw himself onto me, his arms crushing me in a desperate embrace. His body shook with sobs, and his breath hitched against my ear. "Clarissa," he choked out, his voice raw, "I'm such a bastard. A complete idiot. Please, please forgive me."
He had cried twice before in our seven years together. The first time, when Annis left him. The second, when he proposed, begging me to stay. Both times, I had seen his tears as a testament to his love, a sign of his vulnerability, a reason to forgive, to try again. I had melted, believing they were tears for me.
But this time, his tears felt cold on my skin, like icy rain. They didn't move me. They didn't soothe me. They were just… wet.
And then I smelled it. The cloying, sickly sweet scent of Annis's perfume. It clung to him, heavy and suffocating. My stomach churned. A wave of nausea washed over me.
My body reacted before my mind could process it. I pushed him away. Not violently, but firmly. My arms stiffened, creating a necessary distance between us.
He pulled back, his bloodshot eyes wide with surprise. "Clarissa? What's wrong? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Coleton," I said, my voice flat. "Just… tired."
He stared at me, a bewildered expression on his face. "You're… fine? You always used to yell at me. Or cry. Or hit me. Why aren't you doing anything?" He studied my face, searching for a reaction, a flicker of the old Clarissa. "Why aren't you telling me how much you hate me? Why aren't you asking me how I could do this?"
I remembered all the fights, the desperate pleas, the endless cycle of forgiveness. My love for him had been a bottomless well, always ready to pour itself out, to heal, to mend. But the well was dry now. There was nothing left.
"What's the point, Coleton?" I asked, my voice devoid of emotion. "We're old married couples, aren't we? No need for theatrics."
His body stiffened. The words hung in the air, a silent accusation. I remembered all too clearly. The times I'd reached for his hand in public, the times I'd tried to steal a kiss, only for him to pull away, muttering, "We're old married couples, Clarissa. No need for all that PDA. Annis thinks it's tacky."
Annis. Always Annis. Even then, her ghost was dictating our interactions. Her judgment, his command.
I also remembered Annis, standing nearby, occasionally chiming in with a smirk, "He's right, Clarissa. You're making a scene. It's so… desperate."
And I had believed her. I had believed them. I had tried to be less desperate, less outwardly affectionate, less me. I had tried to be more like Annis.
Now, his gaze was fixed on me, a flicker of something new in his eyes, something akin to fear.
He stayed by my bedside all night. Watching me. Waiting. Hoping for some sign of the old Clarissa, the one who would forgive him, again. The one who would rage, then weep, then melt back into his arms.
But I just slept. Deeply. Peacefully. Unburdened by his presence, by his silent vigil. His tears, his guilt, his hovering presence - none of it reached me. I was finally, truly, free.
