The argument started over something small, as most do. By the time night fell, the words had piled up and the silence between us felt heavy. We decided to sleep in separate rooms to cool off.
I lay in the guest room, eyes closed, hoping sleep would come. Instead, my mind replayed every sharp sentence and every feeling we hadn’t said out loud.
At some point, the door creaked open.
He stepped in quietly to grab something from the dresser. I pretended to be asleep, unsure whether I wanted him to notice I was awake. Then he paused beside the bed.
I felt the mattress dip as he leaned closer, his breath warm near my ear.
In a soft whisper, he said, “I wish…”
Then he stopped.
The unfinished sentence hung in the air like a fragile thread. A moment later, he left without another word.
I stared at the ceiling, wondering what he meant. Did he wish we hadn’t fought? Did he wish things were easier? Did he wish he could take back his words?
Under the uncertainty, there was something gentler — a reminder that even in conflict, we still cared enough to check on each other.
The next morning, over coffee, we talked about ordinary things first. Then he finally said, “I wish we could talk without hurting each other.”
I smiled. It was the ending I’d been waiting for.
We didn’t fix everything that day. But we chose to try again — and sometimes, that’s what love really is.
