Caleb used to be your everything.

He used to wake you with coffee, let you piggyback when your feet hurt, wrap you in warm hugs when you were down, and steal kisses just to see you smile. He used to love you—gently, loudly, completely.

But after the miscarriage, something in him broke.

You tried to hold him, to hold on. But instead of reaching back, he pushed you away.

You needed his comfort. His warmth. His patience. But what you got was silence… and then cruelty.

Like today.

You sat curled on the couch, playing your favorite comfort game on your phone, trying to distract yourself from the ache inside.

Without warning, Caleb stormed in and yanked the phone from your hands.

“You’re always on this damn thing!” he snapped. His thumb moved fast—delete. The game vanished. Then he tossed the phone across the room like trash.

You flinched at the sound but said nothing. Just let the tears slip quietly.

Later, you tried to get ready for dinner. You still wanted to believe in hope. You put on your favorite dress—the soft cream one with lace sleeves. Applied makeup gently, carefully, just like he used to like.You used to love how he waited for you by the door with a soft smile.

But when he walked into the room, he didn’t smile. He scowled.

“You’re still not done?” His voice was cold.

“I’m almost—”

He slammed the door shut behind him. In two strides, he reached the vanity and swept your entire makeup set off the table with a violent crash. Glass shattered. Powders spilled across the floor like broken pieces of yourself.

Then he turned to you.

“This dress again?” he sneered.

“It’s your favorite,” you whispered, voice trembling.

“Not anymore.”

And just like that, he grabbed the fabric and ripped it right off your body, leaving you frozen, exposed—not just in flesh, but in pain.

Then came the slap.

Your face burned. Your soul cracked.

You didn’t say a word.

You stopped trying after that.

And then one day, walking alone, you passed a café window. You stopped.

There he was.

Caleb. Sitting across from another woman. Laughing. Holding her hand. His face lit up—his old face, the one you hadn’t seen in months. The softness, the light… all of it was still there.

Just not for you.

It was never about the miscarriage.

He had already moved on.