He Speaks to Everyone But Me Chapter 08

He Speaks to Everyone But Me Chapter 08

[Ella’s POV]

I ended up in Crescent Bay, a small coastal town on the West Coast.

No one knew Owen here. No one knew I’d been married to a man who pretended he couldn’t speak.

I found work at a flower shop. Watered stems, trimmed leaves, wrapped bouquets.

One evening, I stood outside holding a bunch of lisianthus. The sunset painted half the street orange.

The shop owner, Clara Mitchell, smiled at me. “Pretty, huh?”

I looked at the sky and said softly, “Really pretty. Like orange soda.”

The words came out before I realized it. I used to want to say things like that to Owen first.

But now I knew some words didn’t need a listener. They were fine for the evening breeze. Fine for me.

I settled into a new rhythm.

Morning coffee by the beach.

Afternoon sun in the shop.

Evening walks along the shore.

Neighbors smiled and asked, “What’s new at the shop today?”

“Lisianthus. And a small bunch of white roses.”

A few days later, as I left work, I saw him at the corner.

Owen.

Thinner.

Black coat ruffled by the wind.

Stubble on his jaw.

Red in his eyes.

The moment he saw me, he came alive.

“Ella.”

Hoarse.

Shaking.

I stopped.

This was the voice I’d waited three years for. I’d dreamed that if he ever said my name, I’d break down and tell him we’d finally made it to that day.

But now I heard it, and I felt nothing, like a stranger calling out to someone else.

He stepped closer. “Ella, I searched everywhere. I know I messed up. I really do.”

I asked, “How did you find me?”

My calm tone made his eyes redden.

“I checked flights. Asked your friends.”

“Ella, please. Don’t be mad anymore. You wanted me to talk, so I’ll talk to you every day.”

He rushed his words.

“Sunset. Flowers. Strawberry sales. Anything you want. I’ll listen. I’ll never say you’re too much again.”

I looked at him, and it almost made me laugh.

I’d offered all those things before. He’d rejected them. Now that I’d taken them back, he wanted them.

But hearts aren’t recordings. You can’t rewind and start over.

I said quietly, “Owen.”

He looked up, clinging to hope.

“I don’t want to tell you anymore.”

His face went white.

“Ella, I really did love—”

I cut him off. “That doesn’t matter to me now.”

“I signed the divorce papers. My lawyer will reach out. Let’s finish this.”

He swayed like her words had struck him.

Wind blew between us. He reached for me, eyes wet.

“Can’t we start over? I can talk now. I’ll say your name, talk to you, say goodnight every night. Everything you wanted, I’ll give it to you now.”

I stepped back.

“Too late.”

His hand hung in the air.

I looked him in the eye. “What I wanted was a husband who answered me. Not someone who waited until I was dead inside to finally open his mouth.”

Tears slipped down his face. “Ella… can’t we go back?”

I paused, then gave a faint smile.

“Owen. You taught me to be quiet. Now I’m not bothering you anymore. You should be happy.”

His face drained. He’d finally gotten the Ella who didn’t chatter.

And that Ella didn’t want him anymore.