My Silent Husband Finally Spoke, But He Said My Best Friend’s Name Chapter 06

My Silent Husband Finally Spoke, But He Said My Best Friend’s Name Chapter 06

Julian dragged himself back up to the apartment. Outside, the morning sky was bright and glaring.

My slippers were still by the door, angled inward, the way I always left them. Like I’d just stepped

out and would be back any minute.

But the apartment was dead silent.

A silence so heavy that he understood, for the first time, that silence could be deafening.

He stood in the middle of the living room, and every morning routine he’d ignored came flooding

back.

I’d lean out of the kitchen, spatula in hand, bacon sizzling behind me.

“Make sure you wear a coat, Julian, it’s freezing out there.”

“That orange tabby’s back again, sitting by the flowers.”

“I checked the weather. It might rain this afternoon.”

He used to hate it. The constant chatter.

Too small. Too pointless. Too much noise.

Now, the kitchen was completely empty.

No one had set the table for two.

He finally realized that all the noise he’d hated was the only thing that had made this place feel like

home.

Julian walked into the kitchen like he was moving through wet cement.

A row of sticky notes clung to the refrigerator. Each one in my familiar handwriting.

“Meds are in the second drawer. Morning and night.”

“Don’t drink coffee on an empty stomach. Your stomach can’t handle it.”

“Go easy on the hot sauce. You’ve been coughing.”

They’d been there so long that the edges had started to curl.

Julian peeled one off the fridge. His hand trembled violently.

Last night hit him all over again.

My messages. Begging him for help.

[Someone’s trying to break in.]

[Send me a voice note. A loud one.]

[Please.]

That was the first time I’d ever begged him for anything.

And what had he done? He’d sent me internet links. He’d brushed it off as a test.

Julian doubled over. The guilt knocked the air right out of his lungs.

The doorbell rang.

Stella stood on the other side, holding a bag of pastries and two coffees.

One look at his face, and she stopped cold.

“Julian, what’s wrong?”

“Where’s Chloe?”

Julian didn’t answer.

Stella stepped inside. Her eyes landed on the signed divorce papers on the kitchen island, and a flash of relief crossed her face before she hid it.

She softened her voice.

“She’s just throwing a tantrum, right?”

“She loves you too much to really leave.”

Julian looked up at her. His voice was hoarse and broken.

“Someone tried to break into the apartment last night. While Chloe was trapped in here alone.”

Stella went totally still.

Julian held her gaze, and his eyes burned with unshed tears.

“She texted me asking for help.”

“And I thought she was lying.”

Stella opened her mouth, scrambling for an excuse.

“I didn’t know either.”

“I just thought…”

Julian cut her off. “We’re done, Stella. Get out and don’t come back.”

Stella flinched.

“Are you blaming me?”

“I didn’t make you pretend you couldn’t talk, Julian.”

“You chose not to speak to her.”

“And you chose to give all your words to me instead.”

Julian didn’t move. Couldn’t. The truth pinned him in place.

She was right. No one forced him.

Stella’s voice cracked, turning venomous.

“She always talked too much. You said so yourself.”

“All those little things, every single day. Didn’t you hate it too?”

“She’s gone now. So who exactly are you playing the heartbroken husband for?”

Julian wouldn’t look at her. “Get out.”

Stella stood there for a long moment, her jaw tight, before turning on her heel. Then she left.

The door clicked shut behind her, and the suffocating silence rushed back in.

Julian dragged himself back to the study. The trash bag was still on the floor.

He knelt beside it and started pulling things out with shaking hands. Flashcards. Sign language

books. Progress journals.

At the very bottom, buried under everything else, was a thick notebook.

The faux leather cover was worn soft from years of use.

The first page, written in my handwriting:

“Julian made a sound today. Just a breath, not even a word. But it’s something. It’s a start.”

The second page:

“Julian seemed tired today. Am I pushing him too hard?”

“We’ll cut ten minutes off the drills tomorrow.”

He kept turning the pages. Every single entry was me. My words, my endless patience, my foolish

hope.

“Practiced my name with him today. He didn’t say it, but he watched me the whole time.”

“If Julian ever speaks, I hope the first word he says is my name.”

Julian’s vision blurred. The tears spilled over before he could stop them.

He turned to the very last page. The ink was fresh.

The handwriting was faint, the pen barely pressed into the paper.

“Such a shame.”

“He called her name first.”

Julian broke. He collapsed forward, his hands gripping the notebook as flashcards scattered around

him.

He screamed my name. Over and over and over.

Each time, louder and rougher than the last.

But the empty walls gave him nothing back.

I had spent three years waiting to hear his voice.

Now he was finally talking.

But the only person who had ever wanted to listen was already gone.