The iron door closed heavily, and the echo faded through the gray hallway. The clock on the wall ticks, as if counting down the days of freedom. In this enclosed space, I, a woman serving a five-year prison sentence, was trying to record the ripples in my heart in words—it was a deep longing for my husband.
Prison life is an ineffable experience that takes away freedom but cannot take away memory. When night falls, in the silence, thoughts begin to wander. I miss my husband, what should I do? This question is like an invisible shackle that binds my mind.
I remember that when I first entered prison, I was like a trapped beast, with anger, struggle, and despair intertwined. I thought I would forget the outside world, forget that warm embrace. However, time did not make me forget, but made the memory clearer. His smile, his voice, and even the faint smell of tobacco on him lingered in my heart.
I miss his company, those ordinary and precious daily life. Take a walk in the park at dusk, prepare dinner for the weekend together, and watch a movie together on the couch. These simple happiness are so precious after they are lost.
I miss his support, the belief that he will never give up no matter what difficulties come his way. It was he who helped me when I fell to the bottom of my life, telling me that as long as we are together, there is no obstacle that I can't overcome.
I miss his understanding, the tacit understanding that can communicate even without words. He was always able to comfort me when I was silent and give me direction when I was confused.
In these five years, I have learned to reflect, I have learned to be strong, and I have learned how to love. I know that my fault has hurt a lot of people, including him. But I also understood that he never gave up on me and was always waiting for me to come home.
I don't know how he's doing outside, if he's still in our habits, if he'll still light a candle for me on every big day. I want him to know that my heart has never left him, even though I can't be there for him.
Sometimes, I would secretly cry at night, and the tears moistened the pillow, but could not moisten my desire for freedom. I knew that I had to accept punishment and that I had to take responsibility for my actions. But that doesn't mean I've given up on my right to love and be loved.
During these long days, I learned to write letters, many, many letters. I don't expect him to receive it, but it's the only way I can communicate with him. In my letters, I poured out my thoughts, my repentance, my hopes. Each one was like a sustenance to my heart, floating to a world that I couldn't reach.
I also learned to draw, to draw memories we shared. Every stroke is a landscape in my heart, a past I don't want to forget. I hope that one day, I will be able to give him these paintings and tell him that even though the world has changed, my love remains the same.
I don't know what the future holds, I don't know if I'll ever be able to get back to my old life. But I know that as long as I still have love in my heart, I can find the strength to move forward. I miss my husband, what should I do? I can only turn this thought into strength to make myself better, until one day, I can hug him again.
Outside the bars, the world is still noisy. And I, inside the bars, waited quietly, waiting for the reunion that belonged to us.