KCmoonchild

Pardon me if I cry a little. Is it all right if I cry a little? Is it me that you're dreaming of? I didn't mean to say the wrong things. I don't want to fight. I'm sorry. I don't even know what we're fighting for. Can't you just let me know what bothers you? Isn't it easier talking, communicating? I'm so sorry that I ever disappointed you. I know I'm not perfect and that you have flaws too. Can't you just see me as I see you? Why do we fight with our silent words? Where did we go wrong? Why won't this end? I hope this ends. I love you.

He never came home. He's never done this, not my husband. Not the man that I love. Never has he not returned home from work. Have all of the years that we've been together been in vain? Breathing in the hot air around me, trying to calm down. Where is he? Where could he be? What could he have been doing? Even the children are starting to worry about their father, which makes it even worse! Our children – especially our two-year old daughter – are not supposed to notice things like this! They should not cry themselves to sleep, wondering if their father is going to return the next day to them! It's not right! It's just... not...

Help me... I'm falling... I can't see you anymore... where are you...? Tears fall down my face as I cry silently. I don't know where he is. He is late getting home again for the umpteenth time this month. I wish I knew where he is right now and what he is doing. I wonder if he is on his way home? Is he thinking of me? I clutch my pillow tighter, wiping my eyes with one hand. Probably not. He's probably too busy with work, too stressed with something or other – and I'm being optimistic. Most women in my place would... would... would accuse him of cheating. I have no proof, but I'm not looking for it, and I have no reason to suspect tha

Coming to the edge of the water, I slip my shoes off and step in. He does not follow. He is afraid. Does he not know that he will not melt? That the fire burning within him will not go out? I turn to question him, but he has backed away. I move closer to him, concern in my eyes, tinted eyes that match the sea that shifts recklessly behind me. His eyes are brown, a cinnamon spice as fiery and temperamental as his personality. My mouth moves and a wave crashes to the shore, matching the rhythm of my words. He does not hear me. I speak again, curious and soft, in contrast to the ocean, "Why are you so afraid?" His eyes clash with mine for a