The Door Between Us
The Door Between Us
Aria’s POV
The house is quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet. The kind that waits. The kind that presses in on your ears until you are too aware of your own breathing, your own heartbeat, your own thoughts.
I am lying on the bed, turned slightly on my side, staring at nothing. My tears have dried on my cheeks, leaving my skin tight and sore. My eyes burn, heavy and swollen. Every part of me feels wrung out, like there is nothing left to give.
Time has passed. I do not know how much. Minutes. Maybe longer.
The pain has not moved.
I hear movement in the hallway.
Slow footsteps. Careful. They stop right outside my door.
I know who it is without being told.
He does not knock.
That somehow hurts more.
I feel him there. His presence sits heavy against the door, like the air itself has changed. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, careful, like he is stepping through glass.
“Aria.”
Just my name.
Not loud. Not demanding. Not even hopeful.
My chest tightens. I turn my face toward the pillow and close my eyes. I do not answer.
“I am not asking you to forgive me,” Dante says quietly through the door. “I am not asking you to understand why I did what I did.”
His voice wavers slightly, but he keeps going.
“I just need you to hear me.”
I swallow hard. My breathing betrays me, uneven and shallow. There is no way he does not hear it.
“I know I broke you,” he continues. “I know that what I did shattered something inside you. Silence was my worst mistake. Leaving you alone with your grief was cruel, even if I told myself it was necessary.”
My fingers curl into the sheets.
“I thought staying away was protecting you,” he says. “I thought knowing I was alive would put you in danger. I thought I was being strong for you.”
He exhales slowly.
“I was wrong.”
The words land heavy.
“I should have trusted your strength,” he says. “I should have trusted that you deserved the truth. I should have trusted us.”
My throat tightens painfully.
“I am sorry,” he says. Not once. Not quickly. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so sorry.”
I stay silent.
“I will stay here,” he adds softly. “I am not leaving. You do not have to open the door. You do not have to say anything. I will stay.”
He pauses, like he is choosing his next words with care.
“I watched you grieve from a distance,” he admits. “It nearly destroyed me. Seeing you break and not being able to touch you, not being able to hold you, not being able to tell you the truth. Every night felt like punishment.”
Tears sting my eyes again.
“I know that does not make it better,” he says quickly. “I am not saying it to excuse myself. I just want you to know that I felt every second of your pain.”
There is a long silence.
Then, gently, hesitantly, he speaks again.
“The baby,” he says.
My body stiffens.
“I know the baby is not leverage,” he continues quickly. “I know this child is not something I get to use to pull you back to me. I just… the baby is proof that you survived. That you kept going even when you thought I was gone.”
His voice cracks.
“I want to be worthy of both of you. Even if it takes years. Even if it takes forever. I will wait.”
My hand moves to my stomach before I can stop it.
“I will not rush you,” he adds. “I will not demand anything from you.”
Something in my chest finally gives.
“You hurt me,” I say through the door.
My voice is weak, but it is steady.
“You hurt me in a way I do not know how to explain. You took away my choice. You let me build my life around your absence.”
I take a shaky breath.
“You do not get to rush healing,” I continue. “Trust does not come back all at once. I do not know when it will come back at all.”
“I know,” Dante says immediately. He does not interrupt. “I know.”
There is another pause.
Then, very quietly, “Can I see you?”
My heart stutters.
“You can tell me to leave afterward,” he adds. “I will go if you ask. I just need to know you are real. That you are here.”
I stare at the door.
My hand shakes as I reach for the lock.
The click is soft, but it feels loud.
I open the door only a little.
Dante stands there like he is afraid to breathe. His eyes lock onto mine instantly, wide and raw, like he is seeing a ghost and a miracle at the same time. He does not touch me. He does not move.
“Hi,” he says, barely audible.
I step back and open the door wider.
“You can come in,” I say quietly. “But not close.”
He nods and steps inside, stopping exactly where I indicate. He does not sit. He does not lean. He waits.
“I am sorry,” he says again, this time looking directly at me. “I will earn back every inch you give me. I will never disappear again.”
I look at him. At the familiar lines of his face. At the man I buried and the man standing in front of me.
The pain swells too fast.
I cross the room and shove into his chest, fists hitting him weakly as I break.
“You are such an idiot,” I sob. “Do you know what you did to me? Do you know how many nights I cried myself to sleep?”
He wraps his arms around me instantly, carefully, like he is afraid I will shatter. I cling to him, pressing my face into his shoulder, sobbing hard.
“I hate you,” I cry. “I hate you so much.”
“I know,” he whispers, holding me tighter.
My fingers dig into his shirt. I am crying and shaking and cursing him under my breath, calling him names through tears, even as I cling to him like I cannot stand without him.
He does not let go.
He just holds me.
And for the first time since the door closed, I let myself believe that maybe one day, this will hurt less.
Not today.
But someday.