We slept in the same bed for ten years without ever touching each other. Everyone else thought our marriage was over, but the truth hurt more. Some wounds can be reopened with just a touch.

“I felt that if I came close to you again, I would be betraying him. As if accepting the warmth of another body meant his absence no longer hurt.”

Her tears soaked the pillow.

“But the pain didn’t go away,” she said. “I just learned to live stiff… like this bed.”

That night, for the first time in fifteen years, I moved closer without touching her. Just enough so she could hear me breathe.

“I never wanted us to carry this alone,” I told her. “I lost him too. And I punished myself too.”

Rosa closed her eyes.

“I know,” she whispered. “That’s why I didn’t hate you.”
She took a deep breath. “I just froze.”

Months passed. There were no sudden miracles.
But something shifted.

One early morning, Rosa extended her hand. She hesitated.