Selene's Point of View
There are silences that stretch farther than oceans—
Not because there's nothing to say,
But because the heart has learned to whisper alone.
The conference had passed like most things in their marriage— efficient, calculated, successful on paper. And yet, as Selene moved through the marble lobby of their hotel with Caspian beside her, she felt the same ache in her chest she had known for years. An ache that never shouted, only hummed— a low, constant sound she had learned to live with.
They were traveling together for the first time. Five years into a marriage held together by obligation and appearances, it felt less like a beginning and more like a strange detour. And still, Selene followed.
She always followed.
Back in their suite, Caspian had resumed reading reports. The soft glow from the lamp cast shadows across his sharp features. He looked like he belonged in this world of muted opulence— tailored, precise, untouchable.
Selene, seated on the other end of the couch, watched him without meaning to. Her eyes traced the line of his jaw, the quiet furrow of his brow as he skimmed through numbers. Once, she would've wondered what thoughts hid behind that gaze. Now, she wondered if he ever wondered about hers.
She folded her hands together, fingers cold despite the warmth of the room. Her love for him had never died. It had only learned how to live quietly. In a touchless marriage. In long silences. In a shared life that did not include a shared heart.
Love doesn't always fade. Sometimes it just learns how to stop reaching.
The dinner was quiet. Casual. Civil. They talked about business and boardrooms and the next day's schedule. Not once did Caspian ask if she liked the food. Not once did he meet her eyes for more than a passing second.
She smiled when she needed to. And when the conversation lulled into silence, she did not try to fill it.
Later, Caspian fell asleep on the couch, files resting on his lap. Selene stood at the edge of the room, barefoot and dressed in ivory silk. She didn't wake him. Instead, she just watched him.
Even in sleep, he seemed far away.
Selene walked over and gently covered him with a throw. Her fingers hovered above his hair— so close. But she didn't touch him.
She didn't let herself want that anymore.
Instead, she whispered the words she never said out loud.
"If I had been braver… would you have let me love you?"
The question died in the room like all the others.
She turned away, retreating to the other side of the bed, where she would sleep facing the wall. Not because she hated him. Not even because she had given up. But because it was the only way to survive loving him like this— distantly, and silently, and always.
Sometimes the greatest distance isn't measured in miles,
But in how long you've been sleeping beside someone
Without ever truly being seen.
What kind of love survives unspoken—
And at what point does silence become its tomb?
Selene didn't fall asleep right away.
Even with the hum of the city outside the tall hotel windows and the steady rhythm of the air conditioning, her mind wouldn't quiet. It never really did. At least, not when she was this close to him.
There was a time when sharing a space with Caspian felt like a dream. Back when she still believed proximity could substitute for love. When she thought being his wife, in name and in routine, might be enough to grow something real between them. But time had a way of draining hope from the smallest places. Now, even the sight of his shoes neatly arranged beside hers felt like a performance. A play they both showed up for, night after night, line after silent line.
And yet, she loved him still.
Why? The question floated above her chest like smoke. Why hold on to something that never reached back?
But the answer was never clear. Maybe because love like hers didn't ask for reasons. It just was. Quiet. Enduring. Foolish, maybe. But pure in its persistence.
She turned on her side, facing the empty half of the bed, though she knew Caspian had fallen asleep outside. He always did that when they traveled— kept physical distance even in places meant for rest, intimacy, closeness. She used to think it was because of stress or exhaustion. Now, she didn't bother finding excuses for him.
Now, she just accepted that closeness was a foreign language they had both stopped learning long ago.
The next morning, sunlight spilled through the sheer curtains. Selene was already up, standing by the window in her robe, a steaming cup of tea in hand. The city was awake now— alive and moving, unlike the stillness that constantly surrounded her and Caspian.
She heard him stir behind her. The quiet rustle of fabric. The soft, habitual sigh he made when he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
Selene didn't turn. She sipped her tea instead.
A part of her wanted to ask if he'd slept well. Another part was too tired of being the only one who asked.
"You're up early," Caspian said behind her, voice low and unguarded from sleep.
"So are you," she replied without turning.
For a moment, there was silence again— the kind that hung between people who should have known each other better than anyone else, but somehow didn't.
"You have the investor meeting at ten," she said quietly.
"I remember," he answered.
And that was it. Another exchange. Another stretch of words that meant nothing and everything.
As they rode to the meeting together, the city passed by in blurred glass reflections. Selene sat beside him, looking ahead, hands folded on her lap. Their driver spoke nothing. The only sound was the occasional clicking of Caspian's pen as he flipped through notes.
"I booked the afternoon off," he said suddenly.
Selene turned, surprised. "You did?"
"I thought we could… see something. Since we're here." He paused. "Together."
The word sat awkwardly in the air.
It was the first time he had used it with intention in a long while.
Selene stared at him for a second too long. Her heart did that thing it hadn't done in years— fluttered in her chest like it still believed in miracles.
But then, like always, she remembered who he was. Who she had become in his shadow.
Still, she nodded. "Alright."
And that was how the afternoon was set.
They walked along the coast, where the sea touched the sky in blurred lines and the wind didn't care about what was broken or distant. Selene wore her hair down, and Caspian had left his tie behind. It almost looked like a life they could have had if things had been different. If hearts had been braver. If silence hadn't become their default.
As they sat on a bench overlooking the water, Caspian broke the quiet again. "Do you ever think about what we'd be like… if things had started differently?"
Selene turned to him slowly, caught off-guard by the question.
"Do you?" she asked softly, a trace of something old and tender in her voice.
He looked at her, and for the first time in a long time, Caspian's eyes didn't look past her.
"Sometimes," he admitted. "Too late now, isn't it?"
Selene smiled, but it was the kind of smile you wear when you've accepted a goodbye without it being spoken.
"Maybe," she said. "Maybe not."
They sat in silence again, this time not out of habit, but because neither of them knew how to untangle what had been broken for so long. The space between them was still there— but for the first time, it didn't feel so final.
And Selene realized:
Maybe love doesn't always need to be loud. Maybe sometimes it just needs a moment to breathe.
Even the coldest stars still burn—
But from a distance, you forget how bright they once were.
If two people share the same silence for long enough,
Can it ever learn how to speak again?