She is still sleeping, her dark hair pooling over the pillow like spilled ink. In the half-light, she looks like the girl he married ten years ago—the one who laughed with her whole body, who used to trace lazy patterns on his chest while they negotiated over the last slice of pizza.
Charlie’s sin isn’t infidelity. It’s distance. He loves his wife the way a man loves a photograph—preserved, admired, untouchable. But photographs don’t need to be loved back. Wives do. charlie forde – i love my wife – missax
“I love my wife,” Charlie whispers to the bathroom mirror. It’s not a confession. It’s an incantation. He says it three times, hoping the words will stitch themselves back into something that feels true instead of just heavy. She is still sleeping, her dark hair pooling
Because love isn’t the opposite of betrayal. The opposite of betrayal is presence. And Charlie Forde has been absent for years, standing right in front of her. It’s distance
Charlie Forde wakes up at 5:47 AM. Not because of an alarm, but because his body has learned that this is the precise moment the silence in the house turns accusatory.
Now, his hand hovers over her shoulder. He doesn’t touch. Touching requires permission he’s no longer sure he has.
He rolls over to look at her. His wife.