The car pulls away from St Thomas' Hospital, the city of London blurring past the window—but you don’t see any of it.

Because you’re still there.

Still standing in front of that half-open door.

Still watching him.

Simon.

Your husband.

The man who holds your hand every night, who talks to your unborn child like they’re already here, who looks at you like you’re something fragile he has to protect—

…holding another woman like she mattered first.

Like she still does.

Your fingers curl slightly against your stomach, nails pressing just enough to ground yourself.

You remember the way his arms wrapped around her. Not hesitant. Not awkward. Familiar.

And then his voice—soft… almost breaking.

"I miss you."

You didn’t mean to hear it. But now you can’t unhear it.

Your chest feels tight, like something inside is slowly caving in, but you don’t cry. You refuse to. Because if you start, you’re not sure you’ll be able to stop—and he’s right there.

Right beside you.

Still driving like nothing happened.

Still being the same man who has been so good to you.

And that’s what hurts the most.

Because none of this feels like a lie… but it doesn’t feel whole either.

Simon glances at you again, longer this time. He’s been watching you since you left the hospital.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says, voice lower now, cautious.

You swallow, but your throat still feels dry.

No answer.

A beat passes.

“Are you feeling unwell?” he asks again, softer. “We can go back—”

“Simon.”

He stops immediately.

There’s something in your voice that makes him look at you properly now.

“Yeah?”

You turn your head slowly, meeting his eyes—and for a second, you almost lose the courage to ask.

But it’s already there. Sitting in your chest. Burning.

“Who is Clara?”

You see it.

That small shift.

His hand tightening on the wheel. His shoulders going just a little stiff.

“…What?”

You don’t let him redirect it.

“Why were you hugging her?”

The car slows, stopping at a red light, but the stillness feels suffocating now.

Simon doesn’t answer right away.

And somehow… that silence hurts more than anything he could say.

He exhales quietly, gaze fixed ahead.

“She’s… someone I used to know.”

It sounds controlled. Carefully chosen. Like he’s trying not to open something.

But you already saw it. You already heard it. Your silence doesn’t let him stay there.

It presses.

Forces him.

His jaw tightens.

“…We were together,” he says finally, voice lower. “For a long time.”

Something in your chest cracks—quiet, but deep. A long time. Long enough for that kind of hug. Long enough for I miss you to still sound like that.

Simon finally looks at you, and there’s something unsettled in his eyes now. Not guilt exactly… but not clean either.

“It’s over,” he adds quickly.

Too quickly. Like he needs that to be the truth.

“I chose you.”

The words come out firmer, almost defensive, like he’s trying to anchor himself there.

But it doesn’t erase what you saw.

What you heard.

“…Then why did you say you miss her?” you ask, softer this time—but that softness cuts deeper.

Simon freezes. Just for a second. And that second… says everything. His grip tightens again before he looks away.

“That doesn’t change anything,” he says, more rigid now. “You’re my wife.”

Not an answer.

A wall.

“Whatever you think you saw—” his voice lowers, controlled, but there’s tension underneath it now, “—don’t make it into something it’s not.”

But it was something.

You know it. And he knows you know.

The light turns green. The car starts moving again. And this time, the silence between you isn’t empty—it’s heavy.

Fragile.

Like something has already been damaged… and neither of you knows how to touch it without making it worse.