The Voice She Lost For Me

Being married to a woman who couldn't speak was, surprisingly, the most harmonious relationship of my life.

But after five years of trying, and failing, to have a baby, the silence between us had grown suffocating.

I finally snapped. For God's sake, Cecilia, give me something to work with here. Are you even trying?

That was the exact moment the Ticker appeared.

Lately, in moments of high emotional stress, my mind had started projecting a bizarre, magical-realism phenomenona translucent, scrolling feed of text in my field of vision, like a live comment section ruthlessly judging my life.

[Does the placeholder husband really have the nerve to blame her? Bro, you have low sperm motility. It's a miracle if she ever gets pregnant.]

[Hasn't the female lead cooperated enough for five years? If she were with a guy who actually had functioning swimmers, she'd be pregnant on the first try.]

[Don't worry. The real male lead, Felix, just got back. They reunited at the Davis gala yesterday.]

[The divorce papers she drafted are already sitting in her study drawer. Time for the side-character husband to step down.]

Before I could even process the scrolling text, Cecilia lifted her hands. Her fingers moved in the elegant, fluid sign language we had perfected over the years: "Do you want to try again?"

My chest hollowed out. I bypassed our bed, walked straight down the hall into her study, and yanked open the top drawer of her mahogany desk. The pristine stack of legal documents stared back at me.

I returned to the bedroom, the papers heavy in my hand. "You want to divorce me?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

...

"..." Cecilia looked at the divorce agreement, her expression unreadable.

She picked up her phone, her manicured thumbs flying across the screen, and held it up to me.

"Wesley, do you love me?"

I stared at the glowing pixels, completely thrown.

Cecilia Davis and I were set up by her grandfather. We had zero emotional foundation going into this. Whether we loved each other had never seemed to matter.

And yet, for five years, we had worked.

Five years ago, a severe trauma left her with psychosomatic mutism. The doctors said her vocal cords were fine, but her mind had locked the door to her voice. We learned to communicate in the quiet spacesa brush of shoulders, a shared glance, the silent cadence of sign language.

It wasn't a grand, sweeping romance, but our souls seemed to click into place.

"Does it matter?" I deflected, my voice hardening. "You know as well as I do that our marriage was a transaction. We both got what we needed."

The light in Cecilia's eyes instantly died.

The heat that had been building between us just moments ago evaporated, leaving a chilling void. She turned without a sound and walked into the master bathroom, the click of the lock echoing in the large room.

The Ticker rolled past my vision:

[Of course it matters.]

[What Cecilia wants is a partner who actually loves her.]

[He doesn't love her, but he's perfectly happy to monopolize her time and her body.]

[Unlike Felix. Felixs love for her has always been open, proud, and unapologetic.]

[Felix Harrington comes from real money. Hes her equal. If Cecilia hadnt lost her voice five years ago, and if Felix hadnt gone to Milan to study fashion, a regular guy like Wes Callahan would never have married into the Davis empire.]

[Now that Felix is back, shes naturally going to find an excuse to divorce Wes.]

[LMAO, Wes still actually thinks he can get her pregnant.]

[Isn't he just after the Davis trust fund and her flawless genetics?]

[Too bad hes been shooting blanks for five years. Not a single successful pregnancy.]

[All that effort for nothing.]

Suddenly, a wave of profound exhaustion washed over me.

For the past five years, to optimize our chances of conceiving, I had lived like a monk. Strict sleep schedules, grueling workouts, militant diets.

Yes, Cecilia came from a dynastic East Coast family. Yes, she was breathtakingly beautiful. But my desire for a child had absolutely nothing to do with Davis money.

I was a marine biologist specializing in deep-water extremophiles. By nature, I was a cave diverone of the most lethal extreme sports on the planet.

Five years ago, I suffered severe nitrogen narcosisthe "martini effect"during a deep-cave expedition. I nearly died. After that, I transitioned to a desk-heavy research role, drastically cutting down my dives.

But the call of the water never left me. The dark, flooded veins of the earth still pulled at me like a magnet.

When we got married, I desperately wanted a child. I wanted an anchor. I knew that if I had a son or a daughter tying me to the surface, I would finally have the strength to let go of my dangerous obsession with the deep.

Just as the Ticker said. Five years of militant effort, and nothing.

I had spent half a decade quietly assuming the issue lay with Cecilias stress levels. I never imagined that I was the broken one. The prolonged exposure to immense deep-water pressure over my career must have compromised me.

Five years ago, Richard Davis, the patriarch of the family, orchestrated our meeting. I always assumed Cecilia only picked me because she had lost her voice and was settling for someone safe, someone who wouldn't demand a spotlight.

Now, her "one who got away" was back.

There was no reason for me to drag this out.

Taking a pen from the nightstand, I flipped to the last page and signed my name on the thick, textured paper.

When Cecilia finally emerged from the bathroom, enveloped in a cloud of steam, I handed the documents back to her.

"It's signed," I said, my tone aggressively neutral. "I'll pack my things and move out tomorrow."

Cecilia stared at my jagged signature. Her eyes, usually a cool, crystalline blue, flushed red at the rims.

She typed on her phone: "Have you thought this through?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I have."

The reason I was cutting the cord so cleanly wasn't born of spite. It was born of self-preservation.

Because lately, I had realized something terrifying: I was starting to fall in love with my wife.

But Cecilia was emotionally impenetrable. Cool, composed, and impossibly guarded. If she was holding onto the ghost of a first love, the most dignified thing I could do was exit the stage before my heart was entirely collateral damage.

The Ticker mocked me:

[Oh, please. Your little crush is nothing compared to what Felix feels.]

[And so what if youre catching feelings? Cecilia doesnt like you.]

[She and Felix have been waiting for each other all these years.]

[Stepping aside is the only smart thing youve done.]

Cecilias fingers tightened around the thick paper, her knuckles turning white. She walked back into the study and shoved the papers back into the drawer, slamming it shut.

I went to the liquor cabinet, pulled out a bottle of rye I had been aging for years, and poured a heavy measure. I downed it in one burning swallow.

The alcohol seared my throat, but it didn't burn away the memories of the last five years.

Before we got the marriage license, I had laid all my cards on the table. I told her about my ex-girlfriend, Nicole Foster. Nicole was a fellow cave diver, my partner in the water and in life for four years.

During the dive where I got narced and nearly died, Nicoles air supply was running critical. Instead of trying to haul my delirious body out, she cut the line. She left me in the dark and swam for the surface alone.

I was saved by a nameless, faceless strangeranother diver who dragged me to an underwater decompression habitat. I spent two weeks in a hospital bed.

The day I was discharged, I broke up with Nicole.

It took me two years to even consider dating again, which led to the blind date with Cecilia.

I could talk about Nicole with the clinical detachment of a scientist discussing an old specimen. It meant I was over her.

But Cecilia? She had never once mentioned her romantic history.

The things we bury deepest, the names we refuse to speakthose are the ones we can never truly forget.

Felix Harrington. I knew the name.

He was a rising star in bespoke menswear. When Cecilia and I got married, he was working in Milan for a legacy Italian fashion house.

The suit I wore to marry Cecilia was from that exact brand.

Just a few days ago, I had seen a feature on him in "GQ". He had returned to New York to launch his own eponymous label.

The interviewer had asked, "Felix, why leave the prestige of Milan to start from scratch in the States?"

He had offered a devastatingly handsome, melancholic smile. "My first love is here."

"I came back to build my brand, yes. But more importantly, I want to wear a suit of my own design when I marry the woman Ive always loved."

"So, we can expect wedding bells soon?" the interviewer teased.

"Thats up to her," Felix replied smoothly. "But I'm ready."

"Any plans for a family?"

"We both love kids. I think well aim for three."

The Ticker had said Felix wouldn't have my "issues." One try, and she'd be pregnant.

A sharp, acidic ache bloomed in the center of my chest.

Later that night, I pretended to be asleep when Cecilia finally came to bed.

In the liminal space between waking and dreaming, I felt her slip under the covers and press her body against my back, just as she always did.

I felt the soft, hesitant press of her lips against my shoulder blade, then the nape of my neck. She found the small mole resting just above my collarbone and kissed it with a desperate, lingering reverence.

Her touch was scorching. A complete betrayal of the ice queen she played during the day.