The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting soft golden streaks across the sheets. The weight of the past night still lingered in my chest, a quiet hum beneath my skin, something deep and unshakable.
Mark was still asleep beside me, his arm draped lazily across my waist, his body warm against mine. His breaths were steady, even, the kind of peaceful rhythm I wouldn't have associated with him months ago. But here he was, perfectly at ease. And somehow, so was I.
I hadn't slept much.
Not because I was restless, or because my mind was spinning with regret. It wasn't.
It was something else.
The confession had left me feeling raw, but not in a way that hurt. Mark hadn't just listened—he had understood. He hadn't given me empty reassurances or looked at me differently, hadn't pitied me or made me feel small beneath the weight of my past. He had just… held me.Listened. Told me, in his quiet, stubborn way, that I wasn't alone anymore.
