Scented Sheets | By Roselyn A. St. Claire

A friend once told me about a night when silence filled the room.

Calmness. Deep thought. That quiet space where your mind runs faster than your heart can keep up.

She had gone to visit the man she loved — a man she understood deeply, maybe too deeply. While folding some clean sheets on his bed, her eyes caught the way they looked. Not like they usually did when he’d slept on them alone. Normally, there’d be one-sided creases, pillows stacked neatly on his side. But this time, both pillows had been used. And one of them… had marks. A scent.

Immediately, she said, her body reacted. She stayed calm, but inside, she was burning.

He was talking to her while she was lost in thought, trying to process what her eyes had just seen. She stopped folding and asked if she could change the sheets. She changed that pillowcase first—the one that betrayed her peace of mind. It carried a scent that wasn’t hers. And it wasn’t his either.

After that, her mood shifted. He noticed right away. He pulled her close, kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her lips—softly, deliberately. But she said nothing. She stayed silent. Because all she had was instinct. No proof. Maybe it was just his head that left the greasy imprint. Maybe it was nothing at all.

Still, there was an extra towel hanging on the rack. His t-shirt and shorts draped over the bed frame. A second pair of slippers in the bathroom… her mind couldn’t help but take notes.

But she refused to ruin their last night together before his trip. He’d be attending a series of conferences in Washington, and she wanted that night to be magical.

She told herself: when she’s there, it’s her. When she’s with him, it’s them. Nothing and no one else matters.

Because she knew who he was. And to her, he was hers.
They weren’t her. They’d never be her.
What they shared went beyond the physical—it was rhythm, connection, understanding. Whatever anyone else might give him, it wasn’t what she offered. And she wasn’t threatened.

Still, she was upset. She had always wondered how she’d react if she ever found something that made her question him. Now she knew—and she was proud of how she handled it.

“You know what I did?” she asked me, smiling faintly.
“I played him a song—‘I Stand Accused’ by Isaac Hayes. The same one he once played for me.”

While he showered, she sat on the couch, trying to process the storm inside her.

Later, they packed his luggage together. They talked about her work—he even helped her draft a closure letter for a client. He kept pulling her close, sensing something was off, but she didn’t fuss. She didn’t ask. She just stayed calm.

“It wasn’t acting,” she said. “It was choosing peace. I wanted to feel him, not fight him.”

Later, she gave him a massage. Her hands needed to remember him. He rolled a joint, said he’d smoke only if she joined him. So she did. Then she poured herself a Tanqueray with coconut water, took a slow sip, and let the gin soften the edges of her thoughts.

They made love—differently that night. She took charge. Kissed him with tongue and teeth, let her desire speak in movement and sound. He groaned, whispered that she was making him hard. It was slow, sensual, real—the kind of connection that quiets every doubt for a moment.

Afterward, they fell asleep tangled up in each other.
And when morning came, they talked like nothing had happened. She made tea for both of them. Quiet. Easy. Like peace after a storm that never really left.

She said she remembered that time vividly.

Because it taught her restraint. Strength. And how silence sometimes says more than words ever could.

Sometimes silence says everything we’re not brave enough to admit out loud.

Have you ever chosen silence—just to keep the peace, or to protect your heart?

Tell us about it below. 💭 

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