Seeing Each Other Anew: A Journey of Reconnection

Seeing each other anew

That afternoon Victor was sent home from the office a good hour early. Normally hed stroll through the door at precisely seven, hear the sizzle of something frying in the kitchen, and be greeted by the faint perfume of Millys perfume mingling with the smell of dinner. This time his boss had taken a sudden sick day, so the meeting ended at four. Victor found himself standing in the hallway of his own flat, feeling the kind of awkwardness an actor gets when he steps onto the stage five minutes late.

He slipped the key into the lock, and the bolt clicked far too loudly. Hanging on the coat rack was a sleek, cashmere jacket that certainly wasnt his it was draped where his own coat should have been.

A restrained, velvety chuckle floated from the living room the low, familiar laugh hed always claimed as his own private treasure. Behind it came a male voice, indistinct but unmistakably confident, domestic.

Victor didnt move; his feet seemed glued to the oak parquet he and Milly had chosen together, arguing over whether old oak or warm walnut was the better shade. He caught his own pale reflection in the hallway mirror a suit crumpled by office life, a face that felt like a visitors.

He followed the sound, shoes still on, a flagrant breach of the house rule that demanded shoes be left at the door. Each step rang in his ears. The livingroom door stood ajar.

There on the sofa sat Milly, wrapped in the turquoise bathrobe hed gifted her for her birthday, legs tucked beneath her in the most domestic fashion. Beside her was a man in his forties, wearing pricey suede moccasins with no socks a detail that irked Victor more than anything else and a perfectly fitted shirt with the collar casually undone. He cradled a glass of red wine.

On the coffee table gleamed the same crystal vase that had been Millys family heirloom, now halffilled with pistachios, their shells scattered across the tabletop.

It was the picture of cosy, unremarkable intimacy. Not passion, not a sudden fling, but the everyday sort of betrayal that makes you want to crawl into a hole.

Both of them saw Victor at the same instant. Millys eyes widened, a splash of wine staining the light fabric of her robe. Her gaze was not horror so much as panicked bewilderment, like a child caught redhanded.

The stranger placed his glass down with a lazy, almost lazy gesture, his face showing neither fear nor embarrassment, only a faint irritation, as if someone had interrupted his favourite TV programme.

Victor Milly began, her voice cracking.

He didnt listen. His eyes drifted from the strangers moccasins to Victors own dustcaked brogues two pairs of shoes sharing a floor that should never have met.

I suppose Ill be leaving, the stranger said, rising with a slowness that felt indecent given the situation. He walked over to Victor, looked at him not from above but with the curious stare one gives a museum exhibit, gave a nod, and headed for the hallway.

Victor stayed rooted. He heard the stranger pull on the cashmere jacket, the lock click, the door shut.

Silence settled, broken only by the ticking clock. The room reeked of wine, expensive mens cologne and outright treachery.

Milly wrapped her arms around her shoulders, murmuring something that sounded like you dont understand, it isnt what you think, we were just talking. The words filtered through the air like they were hitting a pane of glass audible but meaningless.

Victor walked to the coffee table, lifted the strangers glass, sniffed the foreign scent, stared at the winestained spot on Millys robe, the pistachio shells, the halfempty bottle.

He didnt shout. He didnt scream. He felt a single, allconsuming emotion a physiological revulsion toward everything: the flat, the sofa, the robe, the perfume, and, worst of all, himself.

He set the glass back, turned, and headed back to the hallway.

Where are you going? Millys voice trembled, edged with fear.

Victor stopped at the mirror, looked at his own reflection the man who had just vanished from the scene.

I dont want to stay here, he said quietly, very clearly. Not until the smell clears out.

He stepped out of the flat, down the stairs, and settled on the bench opposite his block. He pulled out his phone, only to discover the battery was dead.

He stared at the windows of his flat, at the cosy light hed always loved, waiting for the foreign perfume, the strangers moccasins and the ghost of his former life to be aired out. He didnt know what would come next, but he knew there was no turning back to the version of reality that existed before four oclock.

He sat on the cold bench as time seemed to stretch. Each second burned with a blinding clarity. A shadow flickered in his window Milly, looking up at him. He turned away.

A while later half an hour? an hour? the blocks front door swung open. Milly emerged, no robe, just jeans and a hoodie, a blanket tucked under her arm. She crossed the road slowly, sat beside him, leaving a gap the size of a halfperson, and handed him the blanket.

Take it, youll catch a chill.

No thanks, he replied without looking at her.

Milly, his name is Arthur, she said softly, eyes glued to the pavement. Weve known each other three months. He runs the coffee shop by my gym.

Victor listened, head still turned away. Names and jobs didnt matter; they were merely scenery for the real point his world had collapsed not with a bang but with a quiet, everyday click.

Im not making excuses, Millys voice shook. But you youve been absent for a year. Youd come home, eat, watch the news, then fall asleep. You stopped seeing me. And he he saw.

Saw? Victor finally turned, his throat raw from silence. He saw you drinking from my glasses? He saw you scattering pistachio shells on my table? Thats what you call seeing?

Millys lips tightened, tears welled but she held them back.

Im not asking for forgiveness. Im not suggesting we sweep everything under the rug. I just didnt know how else to reach you. It seems only by turning into a monster did I become the person you might notice again.

Im sitting here, Victor began slowly, choosing his words, and Im disgusted. Disgusted by that foreign perfume in our home. Disgusted by his moccasins. Most of all, disgusted that you could do this to me.

He shrugged, his back aching from the cold and the stillness.

I wont go back today, he said. I cant. I cant walk into a flat where every corner reminds me of this day, breathe that air.

Where will you go? Millys fear was raw, animal, the terror of total loss.

To a hotel. I need a place to sleep.

She nodded.

Do you want me to stay with a friend? Leave you alone in the flat?

He shook his head.

That wont change whats happened inside. The house needs maybe it needs to be sold, Milly.

She gasped as if struck. That flat had been their shared dream, their fortress.

Victor rose from the bench, movements sluggish and tired.

Tomorrow, he said, we wont talk. The day after tomorrow, same. We both need to be silent. Separate, apart. And then later well see if theres anything left worth saying.

He turned and walked down the street without looking back, not knowing where he was headed, not knowing if hed ever return. He only knew the life that existed before that evening was over, and for the first time in years he was about to take a step into the unknown not as a husband, not as a partner, but simply as a man who was exhausted and hurting. And, absurdly enough, that hurt made him feel alive again.

The city felt foreign. Lamp posts threw harsh shadows onto the pavement, perfect places to lose ones way. Victor slipped into the first hostel he could find not to save money but to disappear into an anonymous room that smelled of bleach and other peoples lives.

The room resembled a hospital ward: white walls, a narrow bed, a plastic chair. He perched on the edge, and silence hammered his ears. No creaking floorboards, no humming fridge, no Millys breathing behind him. Just a ringing in his head and a weight in his chest.

He set his phone on the charger the reception had kindly offered. The screen flickered awake, filling with work chats, adverts, the usual evening of an ordinary bloke. Normalcy was unbearable.

He typed a quick text to his boss: Feverish. Wont be in for a couple of days. He didnt lie. He felt poisoned.

He stripped down, jumped into a shower where the water was almost boiling, yet he felt no temperature. He stood with his head down, watching the stream wash away the days grime. When he lifted his eyes, his own reflection stared back from the cracked mirror above the sink tired, crumpled, a stranger. Was this how Milly saw him now? Was this who hed been all these months?

He climbed into bed, flicked the light off. Darkness offered no comfort. In his mind ran a slideshow of cursed images: the cashmere jacket on his rack, the wine stain on Millys robe, the sockless moccasins, and the most bitter line her words, You stopped seeing me.

He tossed and turned, searching for a comfortable position that never came. Thoughts buzzed like a persistent fly: what if his own aloofness, his lazy soul, had nudged her into Arthurs arms? Not to excuse her, not to blame her, but to understand.

Milly didnt sleep. She drifted through the flat like a phantom, arms folded behind her back, pausing at the sofa. The wine stain had darkened into an ugly brown patch. She crumpled the robe and tossed it into the bin.

She then took the glass Arthur had been drinking from, carried it to the kitchen, and, with a forceful smash, shattered it against the sink. The crystal sang its death, and a small relief washed over her.

She cleared away every trace of the other man: pistachios, leftover wine, shards of glass. Yet his cologne lingered in the curtains, the sofa, the walls a stubborn perfume of shame and a twisted sense of release. Truth and lie had tangled, pain turned tangible.

She collapsed onto the floor, hugged her knees, and finally allowed herself to cry quietly, without sobbing. Tears slipped down, salty and bitter, not just for Victors hurt but for the collapse of the illusion theyd so painstakingly built: the happy marriage façade.

She knew shed been at fault. Victor might not have noticed, might not have been gentle, but the mistake was hers.

Morning found Victor shattered. He ordered a coffee from the nearest café and perched by the window, watching the city stir. His phone buzzed: a message from Milly.

Dont call, just text if youre okay.

He stared at the simple, human note. No tantrum, no demands, just concern the kind hed perhaps stopped seeing.

He didnt reply. Hed promised silence. Yet for the first time in a day, the anger and revulsion inside him gave way to a tiny speck of something else not hope, but curiosity.

What if, after all the nightmare and the pain, they could see each other anew? Not as enemies, but as two exhausted, lonely people who once loved each other and perhaps lost their way?

He drained his coffee, set the cup down. The days ahead would be quiet, then a conversation. Perhaps the real fear wasnt the talk itself, but the thought that nothing would change.

They no longer believed in fairytales. Their love wasnt perfect; it was bruised and weary. Yet when everything collapsed, they spotted, among the shards, not just hatred but a chance a chance to pick themselves up, not as they had been, but as they might become. Because the strongest love isnt the one that never falls; its the one that finds the strength to rise from the ashes.