Inside the pillow, hidden deep beneath the worn layers of cotton, I pulled out a small bundle wrapped in crinkled plastic. My hands shook as I peeled it open.
Old photographs spilled out — not mine, not his, but ours. The earliest was from the first day we met at the university library. I remembered that day vividly: I was clutching a pile of books, flustered, and he’d quietly held the door open for me. The photo was blurry, clearly taken from afar, but it was me.
There were dozens more. Me walking to class. Me sitting at the bus stop, lost in thought. Me smiling with friends. All secretly captured.
At the bottom of the bundle lay folded pages, yellowed with time. With trembling fingers, I unfolded them. They were letters — written in his handwriting.
“I don’t know how to talk to her. Every time I try, the words get stuck. I’m afraid she’ll see how weak I am inside. So I stay silent. But I love her. God, I love her so much.”
Another letter, dated after our wedding:
“She works so hard every day. I want to tell her she makes this house feel alive, but I can’t. The words sound clumsy in my head. I worry she thinks I don’t care. But I watch her fall asleep on that pillow, hugging it like it’s her only comfort, and I ache knowing it’s not me she holds.”
I sank to the floor, the pillowcase clutched in my hands, my tears soaking into it. All those years I thought he was indifferent — he had been hiding behind walls of silence, his love locked away in ink and cotton.
He had loved me. He still did.
But now it was too late.