How Did We Get Here? ✔️

14. Present

14. Present

The cab ride back to Callen's place was silent. Neither of us wanted to say anything that would start a whole conversation while we didn't have privacy. Truthfully, I felt exhausted and talking would have used up all the energy I had left when I needed it for the conversation I had to have in private with my husband. Thankfully, the cab driver wasn't chatty at all and the only words he muttered were to complain about the rain, and he stayed quiet after that for the rest of the ride.

I tried to prepare my words, to plan what I would say to Callen once we were in his apartment but I couldn't focus on anything other than the hurt in my chest whenever I would try.

"Alright, that'll be twenty dollars," The cab driver announced, turning around to collect his money.

Callen was quick to reach for his wallet and he handed the driver three ten dollar bills, telling him to keep the rest before opening the door to his right and getting out.

"Have a good evening." I mumbled to the driver before climbing out of the cab as well.

The rain was still pouring and neither Callen or I had an umbrella so we hurried to his apartment. Our clothes were already drenched anyway so it didn't make that much of a difference. The wet strands of my hair were sticking uncomfortably to my neck and some droplets of cold water were falling along my back.

We reached his apartment a few minutes after running in the rain and he held the doors open for me. We still hadn't said anything. We took the elevator all the way to the fifth floor and I shivered for the tenth time in a row.

Finally, we arrived in front of his door. I had never been to his apartment before. He had moved out soon after announcing he wanted a divorce and had rented this apartment without informing me about it.

He turned the key and I stepped inside, taking off my shoes immediately to avoid ruining his floor. His apartment was immaculate and I noticed he hadn't really furnished it. There was a big white couch along with a TV and a playstation but there were no decorations or paintings.

The newspapers he liked were neatly kept on a shelf and I ran my fingers along the spine of his books. He had a lot of new ones.

I fought the pain that came with knowing we hadn't properly talked in months. I missed him so much it hurt. I missed talking about his favorite books, I missed him getting mad at the author for killing a character before automatically defending her writing to say she made the right, but heartbreaking, choice.

I missed his writings. I missed our late-night brainstorming for his ideas, whether it was for his newspaper articles or his novels.

I missed him.

Giving up on us wasn't an option.