A newly married couple lay quietly in bed. Curiosity got the better of the husband, and he asked, “How many men have you slept with before me?”
The question hung in the air. The woman didn’t move — “her eyes fixed on the ceiling, her face calm but unreadable.” He expected a playful reply, but silence stretched longer than he anticipated.
Trying to ease the tension, he said lightly, “Hey, it’s okay. I just want to know. You can tell me.” Still, no answer. He whispered, “Honey? Why won’t you answer me?”
Her silence felt deliberate, almost unnatural. Then he heard a faint whisper. Her lips moved, but not forming words. He leaned closer, straining to hear.
It wasn’t a conversation — it was a rhythm, a quiet murmur. Slowly, realization hit him: she was counting — “softly, silently, one number after another.” What began as an innocent question turned chilling. She hadn’t answered because she hadn’t finished. He could only stare into the darkness, wishing he’d never asked.
