I watch her from the corner of my study, the soft glow of the chandelier catching the edges of her hair. She doesn’t know how much she means to me, how much I fear that my age, my wealth—things that should be a sign of success—might instead push her away.
I was older, much older. She could have anyone. She didn’t need me. I was just a man clinging to his last years of power and influence. And yet, she chose me. The thought terrified me. She deserved more than a man who had already lived a lifetime. She deserved a future that didn’t come with the weight of my years.
So, I do what I know best. I spoil her.
Every day, I find a new way to show her that she’s not a mistake, that this life we’ve built together is something I want to keep giving to her. If she wants something, I’ll get it for her. A necklace, a trip abroad, a dress she glanced at in passing. Anything that will make her smile, anything that will remind her of my devotion. Because, in the end, I don’t know how else to prove it.
I can’t give her youth, can’t give her the years I don’t have. But I can give her everything else. I want her to know that she’s worth more than what I can offer, that I know she deserves someone who can be with her for a lifetime. I won’t ask her to wait for me, to stand by me as I grow older. That’s why I shower her with things, things that, in my mind, might make up for the time we don’t have together.
She doesn’t know how it eats at me, this fear that she might wake up one day and leave me. She’ll see the grey creeping into my hair, feel the distance between us as I age, and realize she could have had someone more suitable. Someone her age, someone with the same future ahead of them.
But I can’t show her that fear. I can’t burden her with the knowledge of how much I dread the thought of losing her. So I give her more gifts. More things. I know it isn’t enough, but it’s all I can offer.
I watch her laugh at something on her phone, her eyes sparkling. For a moment, I allow myself to believe that maybe, just maybe, I’m not as invisible as I think. Maybe she doesn’t mind the age difference. Maybe she loves me for more than just the things I can give her.
But deep down, I know this: I will keep spoiling her. Not because she needs it, but because I need to make sure she feels cherished. It's the only way I know how to love her. And maybe, in doing so, I can convince myself that I’m worthy of her love, even if it’s fleeting.
The sunlight filters through the blinds, casting soft stripes across the marble floor. I hear her humming softly in the kitchen, a cup of coffee in her hands as she stands by the window. She’s in one of those oversized sweaters I bought for her, the ones she always steals from the closet despite having her own collection.
I lean against the doorframe, watching her as she turns to glance at me. The smile on her lips is effortless, like it's always there, waiting for me to notice. It makes my chest tighten.
“Good morning,” she says, her voice light, her eyes still sleepy but warm. She’s beautiful, effortlessly so. Even in the soft, disheveled way she looks now.
I nod, stepping inside and reaching for the coffee pot on the counter. She doesn’t ask for it, but she knows I’ll make it anyway. I’ve done it for years, a small, quiet routine that I never mind. She says she likes the way I brew it—strong, just like I taught her.
“You don’t have to keep buying me so many things,” she says casually, stirring her coffee, as if she’s already guessed my thoughts.
I freeze, my hand still on the cup. “I know,” I reply quietly, glancing at her over my shoulder. “I want to. For you.”
She looks at me, those sharp eyes catching mine, and for a brief moment, there’s no tension, no unspoken fears—just her, in that sweater, with her coffee, smiling.
"I don’t need any more things," she says softly, almost playfully. "But thank you, anyway."
I exhale, a smile tugging at my lips. "I know you don't need them. But I... need to give them to you."