When Silence Speaks Louder: The Agony of Uncertainty.
The morning light poured into the room, but Maxwell was nowhere to be seen. I dragged myself out of bed, sluggish and groggy, and made my way to the parlor. There he was, setting the table with an energy that seemed at odds with how awkwardly the previous night had ended.
"Good morning, baby," I greeted softly, sinking into his oversized red leather sofa.
"Good morning, sunshine," he replied with a smile that lit up the room.
Before I could respond, he walked over and gently ran his fingers through my hair, the touch so light it sent a shiver down my spine. His hands trailed down to my shoulders and finally to my hands, which he held for a moment, wordlessly.
My heart raced as he leaned in, his lips brushing against my shoulder before grazing upward toward my ear. His breath was warm, and when his teeth nipped at my skin, a tingle shot through me, leaving me breathless.
I tilted my head instinctively, wanting more, but just as I prepared to lose myself in the moment, Maxwell stepped back. "I'd love to eat your lips for breakfast," he teased, his eyes sparkling, "but freshly toasted bread, eggs, and juice sound more tempting right now. So, let's eat."
I blinked, caught between amusement and frustration. "Oh, really?" I muttered, nettled by his playful restraint.
"You're the sweetest, though," he added, wrapping an arm around my waist and guiding me to the dining table.
As we sat down, I couldn't stop myself from staring at him, wondering what was going on in his mind. Why does he resist me so much? Is it me? My thoughts churned as I pushed the food around my plate.
Meanwhile, Maxwell ate with gusto, barely noticing my lack of appetite until much later. "Are you not enjoying the food, baby?" he asked, mid-bite, crumbs of bread on his lips.
"No, I'm not," I said flatly, pushing my plate away.
He paused, giving me a quizzical look. "What's wrong?"
I took a deep breath and propped my chin on my hand. "Why don't you want to be intimate with me? Is it that you don't find me attractive enough?" The words tumbled out before I could stop them, my heartbeat slowing as I finally voiced the thoughts that had plagued me for weeks.
Maxwell set down his fork and looked at me with that same calm confidence that always managed to disarm me. "Oh no, sugar," he began, his tone gentle but firm. "You're more than attractive, and you know it. But I'm reserving that kind of intimacy for our big day."
His answer left me momentarily speechless.
"MMA, I respect you too much to risk our future for fleeting passion. You mean the world to me, and I don't want anything to complicate what we're building."
His words, so deliberate and sincere, stirred something deep within me. How could I stay frustrated with a man who not only valued me but also saw a future with me? I smiled faintly, nodding in reluctant agreement.
Later that morning, Maxwell suggested a shower, and though it seemed innocuous at first, it quickly turned into another test of restraint.
Under the warm spray, he pulled me against him, his lips finding mine with a hunger that made me forget everything else. His fingers tangled in my wet hair, and for a moment, I thought he'd finally let go. But just as things began to escalate, he pulled back, his breathing heavy and his gaze unwavering.
"We've got lectures to attend, baby," he whispered with a teasing smirk, his self-control once again holding firm.
Frustrated but helplessly charmed, I muttered under my breath as I left the bathroom, leaving him to towel off.
When Maxwell graduated a few weeks later, it felt as if he'd taken a piece of me with him. Life on campus without him became unbearably dull. I drifted through my days, my heart aching in his absence.
I knew he'd gone to the United States to pursue a master's degree in medicine, but the silence was agonizing. Days turned into weeks without a single call, and my mind spiraled into dark places. What if he's met someone else? What if he's forgotten about me?
The thought of him with another woman—a sophisticated American, no doubt—sent waves of jealousy and despair crashing over me. I told myself I wouldn't cry, but late at night, when the loneliness was too much to bear, the tears would come unbidden.
My friends tried their best to console me. "Max loves you," they said. "He'll come back for you when he's done."
But their words didn't fill the emptiness.
At home, my parents grew concerned. My mother dragged me to hospitals, only to be told I was perfectly healthy. But I wasn't. Not really. My heart ached, my mind raced, and my body felt foreign to me.
"What's wrong with you?" my mother asked one evening, her voice thick with worry.
I couldn't answer. How could I explain that the man I loved, the man who made me feel safe and cherished, had left a void that nothing could fill?