Broken Reflections by Olivia Salter | Short Story

Broken Reflections

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 2,725

Desmond’s watch ticked away, its second hand marking time too loudly in the otherwise quiet cafe. The minutes crawled by in painfully slow motion. Each passing second felt like a reminder—of what he had, what he risked, and what he was about to lose. He caught sight of himself in the glass wall beside him, his own reflection looking back with shadows under the eyes, tightness around the mouth. It was an image of a man on the verge of something irreversible.

The previous night replayed in his mind, Jasmine’s voice breaking the stillness of their bedroom, her question hanging like a jagged shard of glass. “Do you still love me, Des?”

No accusation. No raised voice. Just that quiet question, in the kind of voice that makes a man realize he’s been seen for what he truly is. Jasmine—his wife of thirteen years, the woman who had helped him build a family, a life, and the future he’d once sworn to cherish. She’d been there for it all: the late nights, the hard times, the ordinary, thankless days. And here he was in the city today, not for Jasmine, but for someone else.

The gentle clatter of heels drew his attention. Fiona walked in, her eyes sharp, a slight smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She carried herself with that unshakeable confidence that had once felt like an escape, a burst of life beyond the familiar. But today, watching her, he felt something unfamiliar—a hollowness.

She took her seat, adjusting the hem of her dress as she leaned forward, studying him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said, her smile fading slightly.

He managed a weak smile, glancing down at his hands. “Just a rough day.”

“Or a rough night?” she prodded, amusement flickering in her eyes. Her hand found his on the table, her fingers cold and slender, a stark contrast to Jasmine’s warm, calloused hands from hours spent working in their home’s garden.

Once, the coolness of Fiona’s touch would’ve sent a thrill through him. But now, it felt like a reminder—a harsh signal of what he was doing, and what he’d risked.

Fiona watched him, a spark of something sharper in her gaze. “So,” she began, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, “when are we getting away? Just the two of us. No more sneaking around. You’ve been saying you’d make it happen for weeks.”

Desmond felt his pulse quicken, but not in the way he once did around her. “It’s… it’s not that simple.”

She withdrew her hand, leaning back in her chair, crossing her arms. “It’s never simple with you, is it?” she replied, her tone cold. “Maybe you’re still playing house. Maybe you don’t want to leave her at all.”

His eyes rised, caught off guard by the accusation. “That’s not fair, Fiona. You don’t know what it’s like.”

“Oh, don’t I?” She let out a dry laugh, her eyes flashing with anger. “You know why I don’t do relationships, Desmond? Because they’re always messy. There’s always someone pretending, someone lying. I thought maybe you were different, but I guess I was wrong.”

Her words stung, more deeply than he wanted to admit. She’d been his escape, a thrill, the flicker of a different life he thought he wanted. But now, looking at her across the table, the excitement felt brittle, hollow. He’d hurt Jasmine, he knew that, but he hadn’t been honest with Fiona, either. He’d chased something fleeting at the expense of everything real.

“I’m sorry, Fiona,” he said quietly, meeting her gaze. “But I can’t keep doing this.”

She was silent for a long moment, her expression hardening as she took in his words. “So that’s it?” she asked, voice low, hurt flashing in her eyes. “You’re just going to walk away?”

He nodded slowly, feeling the weight of his choice settle on him. “I have to. I should have done this a long time ago.”

She scoffed, shaking her head, and in her eyes, he saw the disappointment, the anger. She rose, slinging her bag over her shoulder, chin held high. “Let me guess,” she sneered, her voice dripping with bitterness, “you’ll tell yourself this is about loyalty. About family. But it’s just you being a coward.”

Without another word, she turned and walked out of the cafe, her heels echoing as she left. And just like that, the affair that had seemed to consume him, to hold the promise of escape, was over.

Desmond sat there, numb, staring at his hands. The thrill had gone, leaving behind a bitter, empty ache. He’d used Fiona as an excuse to avoid facing what he’d needed to address all along: his own choices, his own dissatisfaction. His own failures.

***

When he finally left the cafe and walked home, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the quiet streets. He felt the weight of the past few months settle onto his shoulders, heavy and suffocating. All the way home, his heart hammered in anticipation and dread.

The familiar smell of cooking greeted him as he opened the front door, but there was no warmth in it now. Jasmine was in the kitchen, her back turned, moving with that practiced efficiency he’d always admired. She didn’t turn around.

He stood in the doorway, watching her, the image of her holding their life together even as he’d tried to tear it apart. She glanced over her shoulder when she finally felt his presence, her face expressionless.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” she said, her voice neutral. “Kids are in the living room.”

Desmond’s stomach churned as he took a step closer. “Jasmine,” he began, voice tight, “we need to talk.”

She set down the spoon, turning to face him fully. Her gaze was steady, piercing, her expression guarded. “Go ahead,” she said quietly.

The words he’d prepared caught in his throat. “I… I’m sorry, Jasmine. For everything. For lying, for hurting you. I didn’t realize…” He trailed off, ashamed of his own inadequacy. “I didn’t realize what I was doing to us.”

Her face didn’t soften; if anything, it grew harder. “You didn’t realize?” she repeated, her tone cold. “Or you didn’t care?”

The accusation hit him like a punch, but he didn’t flinch. He’d earned this. “I thought I wanted something else,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “But it was wrong. You’re… you’re everything to me. You always have been.”

She let out a hollow laugh, shaking her head. “I wish I could believe that. I’ve spent so long wondering what I did wrong, Des. What I could have done differently to keep you here with us.” Her voice caught, and she looked away, blinking back tears. “All this time, I blamed myself.”

He felt a sharp pang of guilt, knowing she’d taken on the weight of his choices. “It was never you, Jasmine. I was just… selfish. I thought I needed something else to feel alive.”

Her gaze snapped back to him, sharp and bitter. “And did it work? Did she make you feel alive?”

He dropped his head, unable to meet her eyes. “No,” he admitted, the weight of his shame pressing down on him. “Not like you do. Not like our family does.”

They stood there in silence, the air thick with the pain and betrayal that hung between them. Finally, she spoke, her voice low but steady. “You want me to forgive you, to let you back in like nothing happened. But I don’t know if I can do that, Des. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to trust you again.”

“I don’t expect that,” he said, his voice trembling. “I just want a chance to prove myself. To show you that I can be better. Whatever it takes, Jasmine, I’ll do it.”

She studied him, her expression unreadable. After a long pause, she nodded slowly. “Alright,” she said, her tone cautious. “But understand this: it’s going to take more than just words. You’ll have to show me—day by day—that you’re worth trusting again.”

“I will,” he promised, the weight of her words settling heavily in his chest. “I’ll be here. I’ll be the man you deserve, Jasmine.”

She didn’t respond, turning back to the stove, stirring the pot as if nothing had happened. But he noticed the way her shoulders tensed, the way her hand shook slightly as she gripped the spoon. She was trying to hold it together, but he could see the cracks, the hurt he’d caused.

***

Later that night, after dinner, he sat in the living room with the kids, Jonah curled up against his chest, his tiny hand clutching Desmond’s shirt. Their daughter, Zoe, snuggled against his other side, fast asleep. He watched their peaceful faces, the weight of his choices bearing down on him with a crushing intensity. He’d nearly destroyed this—their family, their sense of security, their trust in him. He’d nearly thrown it all away for something that had been nothing more than an illusion.

From the doorway, Jasmine watched them, her gaze softened by a mixture of exhaustion and guarded hope. Their eyes met, and for a moment, they simply looked at each other. He wanted to say something, to bridge the gap between them, to tell her that he understood the depths of what he had almost lost. But the words felt too thin, too fragile to hold everything he felt. Instead, he just held her gaze, letting the unspoken apology sit between them, heavy and raw.

Eventually, Jasmine broke the silence, stepping into the room and pulling a blanket over Jonah, who was beginning to stir. She smoothed his hair, her movements slow and careful. There was a tenderness in her touch that reminded him of all the small, unspoken ways she’d loved and cared for their family, and how blind he had been to it all.

She straightened, her eyes lingering on Jonah and Zoe before settling back on him. “Desmond,” she said softly, “I meant what I said earlier. This is going to be hard. I don’t know if I can just... move on from this. Part of me doesn’t even want to try.”

His stomach clenched, and he felt the overwhelming urge to reach out and hold her, to reassure her. But he knew he had no right to push for that now. “I understand,” he said, his voice thick. “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I just... I don’t want to give up on us.”

She studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “You know, Des,” she said quietly, “trust isn’t something you can rebuild with a single promise. It’s something you have to earn, over time. And right now, I don’t trust you. I don’t trust that this is real. I don’t trust that you won’t do it again.”

Her words stung, but he knew she was right. Trust wasn’t something that could be mended with apologies or even good intentions. It was something he’d have to rebuild, day by day, moment by moment, in every small decision he made. “I understand,” he whispered, his throat tight. “I’m here to stay, Jasmine. I’ll be here, whatever it takes.”

She gave him a small, weary nod, as if she didn’t entirely believe him but was willing, for now, to leave the door slightly cracked.

“Good night, Desmond,” she said quietly, moving toward the stairs. She paused at the bottom step, glancing back at him one last time, her gaze softened just slightly. “Don’t just tell me you’re here. Show me.”

He nodded, watching as she ascended the stairs, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway.

***

The next morning, Desmond was up early, making breakfast. He moved carefully, pouring orange juice and frying eggs, trying to be as quiet as possible. For once, he wanted to be the one who got things ready, who let Jasmine rest. It was a small gesture, he knew, but it was the only way he could think to start—to show her, through actions rather than words, that he was committed to changing.

The smell of coffee brought Jasmine into the kitchen, her face still marked by the lines of sleep. She stopped in the doorway, her gaze lingering on him, and he could tell she was surprised.

“Good morning,” he said softly, handing her a cup of coffee. She accepted it wordlessly, watching him as he set the plates down on the table. He could see the suspicion in her eyes, the guarded way she held herself, as though bracing for another betrayal.

But she sat down, sipping her coffee as she studied him. The silence was heavy, but he didn’t push it. He let her take her time, knowing she needed space to process.

When the kids came running down, they brightened the room with laughter and chatter, momentarily lifting the tension between them. As they dug into their breakfasts, Jasmine occasionally glanced at him, her expression softening just slightly as she watched him with the children. He didn’t know if it was forgiveness, or if it was just the fleeting relief of routine, but it gave him a sliver of hope.

***

Over the next few weeks, Desmond did everything he could to earn back her trust. He spent more time at home, planning family outings, helping the kids with homework, and taking over household chores he’d once taken for granted. He attended every school play, every basketball practice, never letting his mind drift. His phone stayed in his pocket. No more excuses, no more distractions. And while Jasmine still kept her distance, he could feel a slow shift—a lessening of the icy relationship that had settled between them.

But there were difficult days, too. Some nights, he’d find Jasmine sitting alone in the dark, her eyes red, and he knew she was thinking about the betrayal. She rarely spoke of it, but he could see the pain lingering, etched in her every look, every guarded glance. There were moments when he wondered if his efforts would ever be enough, or if he’d damaged things beyond repair.

One evening, as they sat on the porch after the kids had gone to bed, she finally spoke up. “You know, Desmond,” she said, her voice low, “for a long time, I thought we were untouchable. That nothing could shake what we had.” She paused, her gaze distant, lost in memories. “But now... now I’m not so sure. I keep wondering if it’s worth it, if I’ll ever be able to feel the same way about you.”

He swallowed hard, his heart sinking at her words. “I know I broke that trust, Jasmine,” he replied softly, leaning forward, hands clasped tightly together. “And I know it’s a long road ahead. But I’ll keep trying. I’ll keep showing up. Whatever it takes.”

She didn’t respond immediately, but she looked at him, truly looked at him, as if trying to see past the man who had betrayed her. Slowly, she nodded, though her expression remained uncertain. “We’ll see,” she whispered. “We’ll see if you mean that.”

***

Months passed, and life settled into a new rhythm. The wounds hadn’t disappeared, but they’d become less raw, less consuming. Desmond continued to show up, every day, proving himself through actions, not words. And slowly, Jasmine began to let him back in, though the shadows of what had happened lingered.

Then, one evening, as they were cleaning up after dinner, she turned to him with a soft, hesitant smile. “Remember that beach trip we used to take every summer? With the kids?” she asked.

He nodded, a flicker of warmth spreading in his chest. “I remember.”

“Maybe,” she said, her voice tentative, “we could do it again. Just us. Maybe it’s time to make some new memories.”

The suggestion was cautious, fragile, like a tentative bridge extending across the rift between them. Desmond felt a surge of hope, tempered by the awareness that this was only the beginning of the work they’d have to do. But he was ready—ready to face whatever it took to rebuild what he’d nearly lost.

As they planned the trip, as they began to reconnect, he realized that “showing up” wasn’t a destination but a commitment, one he would need to renew every day. He knew he’d never fully erase the pain he’d caused, but he was willing to try—willing to keep proving to her, and to himself, that he could be the husband and father he should have been all along.

On their first night at the beach, as they sat together watching the waves roll in, he reached for her hand. To his relief, she didn’t pull away. Instead, she let her fingers rest in his, a tentative but hopeful sign that perhaps, just perhaps, they could find their way back to each other, one broken piece at a time.