What Remains Between Us – Chapter One – The Silence Between Us
The first time Mark wet himself during the day, it happened so quietly that he thought, for a fleeting moment, he had imagined it.
He had been standing in the kitchen, leaning forward slightly as he waited for the kettle to boil. His mind was elsewhere—on emails left unsent, deadlines approaching, that dull pressure in his lower back that hadn’t quite resolved itself after last month’s strange stomach bug. The room was still, save for the faint hissing from the stovetop, and Mark was alone. Sarah was upstairs, on a call. The world was quiet.
And then, a brief warmth bloomed between his legs.
It wasn’t dramatic. There was no rushing stream, no sudden loss of control that left him gasping in shock. Just a short, uncertain pulse of heat—like a phantom sensation, something imagined rather than real. But when he looked down, the damp shadow spreading against the front of his grey sweatpants made denial impossible.
He froze, breath caught in his throat. His mind scrambled for logic. Had he spilled water? Had he leaned too close to the sink? But he hadn’t touched anything wet. He hadn’t moved. He’d just… lost control.
He didn’t move for several seconds. The kettle clicked off, breaking the stillness with a small mechanical sigh. He reached for a dishtowel, clutching it tightly, not knowing what to do with it.
It was Sarah’s voice, calling faintly from upstairs, that snapped him out of his daze.
“Mark? Did the kettle finish?”
He panicked. His hands moved faster than his thoughts. He pressed the towel to his front, fumbling with it like someone trying to hide a wound. He could hear her footsteps approaching—the soft creak of the stairs, her light tread on the hallway floor.
“Yeah,” he called back, too loud. “Just finishing up.”
He darted toward the laundry room, clutching the towel over the stain. It felt absurd, theatrical. But his mind was no longer on logic. It was on survival—on shielding her from this small, stupid shame.
He tossed the sweats into the washer, started a cycle, and grabbed a fresh pair from the drying rack. By the time Sarah entered the kitchen, cheerful and mid-sentence, he was already back at the counter, his tea steeping in front of him.
She didn’t seem to notice anything. And he didn’t say a word.
For two days, he convinced himself it had been a fluke.
The rational part of his mind—educated, experienced, reasonable—told him accidents happened. People got distracted. Maybe he’d had more to drink than usual. Maybe it was the lingering effects of that stomach bug. Maybe it wasn’t even a true accident. Just a lapse. Just one.
He didn’t mention it to Sarah. He couldn’t bring himself to. It felt ridiculous. Embarrassing. Like admitting to something that should be impossible for a man his age—thirty-seven, healthy, responsible. Accidents were for children. For the elderly. Not for someone like him.
But the second time, it happened while he was out.
He had gone to the hardware store, intending to pick up replacement parts for the leaky faucet in the upstairs bathroom. It was a short trip. Fifteen minutes there, ten minutes inside, and then back again. But sometime between the paint aisle and the checkout counter, it happened—quiet, unannounced.
He didn’t feel the urge beforehand. That was the worst part. There had been no warning, no pressure. Just a sudden release of warmth, soaking through his briefs, dampening the crotch of his jeans. He hadn’t even noticed until it was already happening.
He left the cart half-full and walked stiffly to the parking lot, his face burning. The stain was faint, but he could feel the wetness, and that was enough. Every step was a humiliation.
He didn’t tell Sarah that time either. He changed quickly, showered, and stuffed the jeans into the laundry. She asked if he’d found the right parts. He lied and said they didn’t have them in stock.
Later that night, when she was reading in bed beside him, he stared at the ceiling and felt something tight and unfamiliar curling in his chest.
A week passed.
Three more accidents followed—each one quieter than the last, as if his body was slowly getting used to betraying him.
He began to anticipate them, though he never knew exactly when they would come. Sometimes he made it to the bathroom with seconds to spare, heart pounding, breath sharp in his lungs. Other times he would simply feel it happen—a soft, spreading warmth, and then the hollow silence of shame afterward.
At first, he fought to hide it. He did more laundry than usual. Folded clothes more carefully. Became meticulous about wiping down the toilet seat, masking any trace of desperation. He learned to sit down when he peed, just in case, and kept a towel nearby to catch the worst if he didn’t make it in time.
But it was Sarah who noticed first—not the accidents, but the change in his habits.
“You’ve been doing a lot of laundry lately,” she said gently one morning, watching him load the washer for the third time that week.
He shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “Just keeping up with it. Thought I’d get ahead for once.”
She didn’t press him, but she didn’t quite believe him either. She lingered in the doorway a little longer than usual before walking away.
The conversation came sooner than he expected, and later than he could bear.
It was a Sunday afternoon. Rain whispered against the windows, and they were curled up on opposite ends of the couch, a movie playing in the background. He wasn’t really watching. He kept glancing at the corner of the rug where he’d almost had an accident that morning, and at the hem of the blanket covering his lap, where his hands twisted nervously in the folds.
Sarah muted the movie.
“Mark,” she said softly, “can I ask you something?”
His heart jumped. He nodded before she could finish.
She waited. Measured her words. “Are you feeling okay lately?”
He swallowed. “Yeah. Just tired, I guess.”
“You’ve been a little off. And I’ve… noticed a few things.”
Her voice was careful, not accusing. There was love in it. Concern. But also knowledge.
He didn’t look at her. “Like what?”
“A few changes. The laundry. The timing. How quickly you get to the bathroom sometimes.”
His stomach turned.
She reached across the space between them and placed her hand gently on his.
“I’m not asking to embarrass you,” she said. “I just want to know if something’s going on. Something we should talk about.”
For a moment, he said nothing. Then, very quietly, “I think I’m having accidents.”
The words tasted sour coming out. They didn’t sound like something an adult should ever have to say aloud. They made him feel small.
Sarah didn’t flinch. She gave his hand a light squeeze. “Okay,” she said, with no trace of pity. “Thank you for telling me.”
He looked at her then. “I didn’t want you to know.”
“I figured as much.”
A soft silence fell between them. The rain outside kept falling.
After a while, she said, “Have you been keeping track of how often?”
“Maybe five times,” he said. “Since last week. That I noticed.”
She nodded. “Do you feel it before it happens?”
“Sometimes. Other times, it’s like… I don’t even know until it’s over.”
Sarah sat with that for a while, then asked, “Do you want to talk to a doctor?”
His first instinct was to say no, to shake his head and retreat. But he paused. Exhaled. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “We can figure it out together.”
They started with small adjustments.
Sarah added a mattress protector beneath the fitted sheet. She didn’t make a show of it, just quietly swapped it out one evening while Mark was brushing his teeth. He saw the change, and she saw him see it, but neither of them said anything.
He began carrying a change of clothes in his car. Just in case. He told himself it was for peace of mind, not necessity. But when he used the backup pair twice in one week, the illusion faded.
Sarah didn’t hover. She didn’t lecture. But she was always nearby, always present. Sometimes that made it worse—her gentleness, her patience. He wanted her to be angry, or at least uncomfortable. But she never was. She simply existed beside him, as she always had, except now there was this silent thing between them that they were both pretending not to carry.
And then came the night when he couldn’t hide it anymore.
It happened while they were watching TV. A rerun of some comedy they used to love. He was sitting cross-legged on the couch, half-distracted, when the warmth returned—slow at first, then sudden. He froze. Looked down. It was unmistakable.
He stood up too quickly, bumping the coffee table. Sarah looked up, startled.
“Mark?”
“I—I need to change,” he stammered, already backing toward the stairs.
She stood as well. “Did it happen again?”
He paused halfway up the steps. His voice cracked. “Yeah.”
She followed him slowly. When he emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later, clean and in fresh clothes, she was waiting for him at the top of the stairs with a quiet expression.
“I think,” she said gently, “we should look into some kind of protection.”
He didn’t answer.
“I don’t mean anything dramatic. Just something to get you through the day without worrying all the time.”
He looked away.
“It’s just a precaution,” she added. “Not a sentence.”
He nodded once, almost imperceptibly.
That night, he couldn’t sleep. He stared at the ceiling and tried to imagine what his life would look like now.
The End of What Remains Between Us – Chapter One – The Silence Between Us
This story is generated whit help of https://chatgpt.com/
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