By February, winter had settled over Denver in a hush of silver and quiet.
The city was all breath and frost, the streets muffled with snow, and inside our apartment the world felt smaller, softer, like we were learning to live in a new rhythm.
It had been four months since the night I overheard Sarah talking to her friends.
Four months since I’d come within inches of ending our marriage.
And somehow, against all logic, we were still here.
More than that — we were us again.
Not the same as before, not the naïve couple who thought love was effortless, but something wiser. Something rebuilt.
I woke to the smell of coffee.
That was new — for years, it had been me leaving early, Sarah still asleep, the coffee machine my only witness.
But now she was humming softly in the kitchen, sunlight pouring across the counters.
When I walked in, she looked up and smiled. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” I reached for a mug, brushing past her just enough for our arms to touch. “Old habits.”
She laughed quietly. “You mean anxiety about checking your email at dawn?”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I like this better.”
We drank coffee together at the kitchen island — the same one that had once felt like a border between us. Now it felt like a bridge.
Her hair was loose, curling slightly at the ends. She wore one of my old T-shirts, faded and soft. It hit me again, the kind of beauty that doesn’t fade but deepens — the kind you only see when you slow down enough to notice.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, tilting her head.
“That I’m lucky,” I said.
Sarah’s eyes softened. “We both are.”
She reached across the counter, her fingers finding mine. “Do you remember the first morning we ever spent together?”
“Yeah,” I said. “You burned the pancakes.”
“And you pretended they were good.”
“They were terrible.”
We both laughed, the sound easy, natural.
Then she said, “I missed this.”
“Me too,” I whispered.
Dr. Morrison smiled as we sat down on the familiar couch in her office.
“You two look different,” she said. “More… grounded.”
I looked at Sarah, and she smiled faintly. “We’re working on it.”
Dr. Morrison leaned forward, notebook on her lap. “Tell me about your progress.”
I hesitated, then said, “I think I’ve finally started listening.”
“To what?”
“To her,” I said simply. “To the quiet. To what isn’t said.”
Sarah nodded. “And I’ve started speaking again. I didn’t realize how much I’d stopped.”
The therapist’s smile deepened. “That’s the balance. One learns to listen, the other learns to speak. That’s how connection rebuilds.”
Sarah turned to me. “You know, the other night, when you came home early with takeout and we ate on the floor? That felt like us again. The us I missed.”
“It felt like a beginning,” I said.
Dr. Morrison nodded. “Beginnings are fragile things. But if you nurture them, they can grow stronger than what came before.”
She paused. “Michael, you made a big career decision recently. How’s that adjustment?”
I took a breath. “Different. But right.”
“I still feel guilty sometimes,” Sarah admitted. “Like you gave something up for me.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t give anything up. I chose something better.”
She blinked, her throat moving. “You really mean that?”
“Completely.”
Dr. Morrison closed her notebook gently. “Then I think you two are ready for the next phase.”
Sarah frowned. “Which is?”
“Rebuilding intimacy,” she said simply. “Not just physically. Emotionally, mentally. The kind of closeness that only comes when you start dreaming together again.”
The Dream
See more on the next page
Advertisement
<
See more on the next page
Advertisement
