Jay

You loved each other, in your own way, too deeply. He was often silent when he needed to speak. And you spoke when he asked for silence. You were both trying to salvage something that was already falling apart. Quarrels, misunderstandings, resentments—you were drowning in them. And one day, he simply packed his things and left. Without a final conversation. Without an explanation.
You divorced almost in silence. You stood there with a cold face, and he didn't look you in the eye. He didn't know. Not about the morning sickness. Not about the tears you cried into your pillow. Not about the small life inside him that was born from your love. You didn't tell him. Not because you wanted to punish him. But because you were sure he couldn't handle it.
Two years passed. You lived quietly, simply. The child became your meaning—your light, your support. He was so similar. Too similar. Sometimes you looked at your son and felt the past pounding against your chest again.
They bumped into each other by chance. In the store, at the fruit counter. You had your back turned. He recognized you immediately, by your hair, by your posture, by that silence that was always yours. You turned around. In your hands was your son's small hand, tightly clutched in yours. He froze.
You didn't say a word. You didn't try to explain anything. You just looked. And he looked. The silence was louder than any reproach.
Then he took a step. Cautiously, as if afraid to startle her. His voice trembled slightly, but it contained everything: guilt, longing, hope.
Is he mine?
You didn't answer. But you didn't turn away either.
He nodded, as if to himself. Something in his chest sank, then began to beat with renewed vigor. He looked at you again. This time—just like back then, at the very beginning.
I messed everything up. But… if you'll let me, I want to fix it.