Forgotten Wife: My Ex-Husband Regrets It After I Left novel Chapter 135

135

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Sienna’s POV

The moment the apartment door shut behind me, silence wrapped itself around the room. No sound of Noah’s little feet running to grab my attention, no warm aroma of coffee drifting from the kitchen like it had that morning. Just me, an empty space, and the faint hum of city traffic seeping through the thin curtains.

I set my small bag down on the sofa and stood there for a while, gazing around. Everything was still the same, the half–organized row of books on the shelf, the unfinished manuscript stacked on the desk. Yet something felt different. The apartment no longer carried the weight of life.

Drawing in a deep breath, I walked slowly to the window and pulled the curtain aside. The view of the beach, with waves gently breaking against the shore, only deepened my loneliness. At Liam’s house earlier, there had been a warmth I couldn’t quite put into words. A heartbeat of life. And here, I was back to being alone.

I sank into the sofa, eyes closing briefly. Noah was probably playing with his Legos by now, glancing toward the door every so often, waiting for me to return. Just imagining it tore at my heart. I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to soothe the ache of guilt. I had promised him I would come back. I wouldn’t break that promise.

My eyes shifted to the manuscript on the desk, the pile of papers covered in red markings, waiting to be finished. I rose, picked up a few sheets, and flipped through them. The story felt like a mirror. I had written it out of grief, out of loss, but now I could see something else between the lines, hope.

My hands trembled as I realized how close I was to the end. Just a few chapters left. Maybe Liam was right last night, maybe I did need to finish it, maybe even publish it. A part of me was terrified, but another part felt ready.

I walked into the bedroom, opened the closet, and pulled out a small suitcase. I really needed to start organizing my things. As I folded clothes one by one, my thoughts drifted again, to Noah, to Liam, to myself.

Fear clung to me. What if I was making the wrong choice? What if I went back, and everything collapsed again? I couldn’t let Noah feel the same pain twice. But on the other hand, I knew I couldn’t keep running from what had become more and more obvious. I missed that house. I missed them.

My hands froze when I found an old photo tucked among the clothes, a picture of Liam and me years ago, smiling at a party. That smile a smile that had been lost. And now, there was a chance to find it again.

I set the photo on the table, staring at it for a long time. A small voice inside whispered: maybe this is the way. Maybe wounds don’t vanish completely, but they can heal if I dared to open myself again.

I left the half–packed suitcase on the floor and sat on its edge, staring at the photo I had just found. It was strange, how a simple picture could awaken so many memories. I remembered that night clearly: loud music, the glow of party lights, and me laughing too freely as if the world carried no burdens. Liam had been beside me, holding my hand, and for a moment I believed everything would always be okay.

But life had proven itself far more complicated.

I exhaled deeply and closed my eyes. A part of me wanted to slip the photo back between the clothes, hide it from sight. But my fingers refused to let it go. Instead, I rose and walked to my desk, placing the photo beside the manuscript. As if the two belonged together, my shattered past, and the story I was slowly trying to rebuild.

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135

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I returned to the suitcase, folding more clothes mechanically, though my thoughts drifted. The image of Noah’s bright, expectant eyes pressed heavily on my heart, warming and hurting me all at once. He was so small, yet he gave my life such undeniable meaning. Liam, his patient gaze, his words in the car earlier, lingered like an echo.

I stopped folding, sank to the floor, my back resting against the bed. “Am I really ready?” I whispered to myself. The question echoed, unanswered.

I looked at the half–filled suitcase. It felt symbolic, halfway between leaving and staying, between opening my heart or shutting it again. My mind circled back to the manuscript on the desk. Maybe, just like writing, life demanded courage to finish an old chapter in order to begin a new one.

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