POV Owen
I tell myself this is temporary.
That’s the lie I choose because it’s the least destructive one available. Stress. Adjustment. A phase that will burn itself out once the pressure settles. People fracture under strain all the time and then find their way back to each other, wiser for it.
I repeat it until it almost sounds like the truth.
Noelle is in the kitchen when I say it out loud for the first time, not to her, but to the space between us.
“This isn’t permanent,” I say.
She looks up from the counter, hands stilling. “What isn’t?”
“The distance,” I answer. “The tension. It’s just… a season.”
She studies me for a long moment, her face unreadable. “You say that like you’re reassuring yourself.” Her mouth curves faintly, but there’s no humor in it. “You don’t usually need to convince me when something is temporary.”
I don’t have a response that won’t unravel everything, so I let the silence stretch. She turns back to what she’s doing, but the quiet feels heavier now, charged with things neither of us wants to name yet.
Later that day, I don’t go home.
I tell myself I’m avoiding another conversation that will end with her asking questions I can’t answer honestly. I tell myself it’s mercy. Space. Time.
The truth is simpler: I want to see Miranda.
When I think of her, my chest tightens—not with guilt, not with regret, but with desire. The kind that feels like stepping into a room where the lights are already on.
She’s waiting when I arrive, seated near the window, posture relaxed, expression calm. She never looks surprised to see me. That, too, feels familiar.
“You came,” she says.
“I told you this was temporary,” I reply, sitting across from her.
She smiles faintly. “You say that when you don’t want to decide yet.”
“I don’t need to decide anything,” I say.
She lifts an eyebrow. “That’s a decision.”
I shake my head. “This doesn’t mean what you think it means.”
She leans back slightly, studying me. “Then tell me what it means.”
“It means I’m under pressure,” I say. “It means my life changed faster than I expected. It means I’m adjusting.”
“And it means,” she adds gently, “that you feel more like yourself when you’re here. With me.”
I don’t contradict her. I sit and keep listening, with no words coming out of my mouth. I have no arguments to deny her words at this very moment.
“You don’t look relieved when you talk about her,” Miranda continues. “You look responsible. Careful and contained.”
“She’s my wife,” I say.
“I was your wife too, remember? And I am asking you not to forget that,” Miranda replies. “I’m asking you to notice what your alter ego costs you.”
“What it costs me is irrelevant,” I say sharply. “I chose it.”
“Yes,” she agrees. “You chose safety and stability. You chose to be needed in a way that requires you to amputate parts of yourself. You were never meant to be small.”
I laugh once, bitter. “You make it sound like restraint is a flaw.”
“It is killing you,” she says quietly. The words land too close to the truth.
“I’m not leaving Noelle,” I say.
Miranda doesn’t flinch. “I didn’t ask you to leave her today.”
“Then what are you asking?”
She meets my gaze steadily. “I’m asking you to stop pretending we are nothing.”
I look away, jaw tight. “It’s a kiss. A few conversations.”
“And the part of you that woke up?” she asks. “The part you buried because it frightened people?”
“That part will leave as fast as it came,” I reply.
“That part is honest,” she says. “The women who broke around you weren’t victims. They were adults who chose you.”
I look back at her. “You’re telling yourself a comforting story.”
“No,” she replies. “I’m telling you the one you’re afraid to own.”
Silence between us is dense and intimate. “It’s time to decide,” Miranda says finally.
I exhale slowly. “I told you—I’m not leaving her.”
She tilts her head. “Then stop coming here.”
The simplicity of it steals my breath.
“You can’t have both,” she continues. “You never could. You just convinced yourself you were doing less damage when you tried.”
I feel the truth of that settle heavy in my chest. “You want me to choose you,” I say.
“I want you to choose yourself,” Miranda replies. “If that’s me, then say it. If it isn’t, then let me go. But… I can’t promise I’ll let you go so easily.”
I stand abruptly. “You’re asking me to blow up my life.”
She rises more slowly. “I’m asking you to stop pretending it isn’t already cracking.”
I leave without answering.
***
“You didn’t answer my message,” Noele says. She’s at home on the couch, with our little and so tiny daughter sleeping against her shoulder. The sight hits me like a blow—domestic, fragile, earned.
“I was busy,” I reply.
“With what?” she asks.
I hesitate just long enough that she notices.
“There it is,” she says softly. “That pause.”
I sit down across from her. “This isn’t what you think.”
She exhales slowly. “Then tell me what it is.”
I open my mouth. Close it again. “I’m overwhelmed. With everything.”
She studies me, eyes sharp and tired. “You don’t look overwhelmed when you’re distant. You look decided.” The word lands like an accusation.
“I’m still here,” I say.
She nods once. “You keep saying that.”
Later, in bed, she turns toward me instead of away. “Are you leaving?” she asks quietly.
“No,” I say immediately. I pull her closer, my arm firm around her waist. “This is temporary.”
She closes her eyes. “I hope you’re right.”
She falls asleep before I do. I lie awake, staring into the dark, Miranda’s words echoing against Noelle’s silence. It’s time to decide.
I tell myself again that this will pass. That recognition isn’t the same as desire. That familiarity doesn’t mean destiny. But as the night stretches on, one truth refuses to soften:
I don’t stop meeting Miranda because I don’t want to stop feeling understood without explanation. And the longer I delay the decision, the more I realize something I’m not ready to admit—
Temporary things don’t usually ask you to choose between two lives. They just force the truth into the open.