The house was never loud, yet silence lived there like a third presence.
Every morning, she brewed two cups of coffee out of habit, not hope. One she drank. The other she left on the counter, untouched, growing cold beside the window. He never asked why she still made it. She never explained.
They shared a home, a last name, and a history that no longer knew where to rest.
At night, they slept on the same bed but faced different directions. Not because of anger. Not even disappointment. It was simply easier not to look at something you did not know how to fix.
She remembered when his hands used to linger, not with urgency, but with certainty. Back then, distance was measured in minutes, not in years. Back then, silence meant comfort.
Now, silence meant avoidance.
One evening, rain tapped softly against the glass. She sat on the floor, folding laundry slowly, deliberately. He stood at the door longer than necessary, watching her without being seen.
“I forgot how to talk to you,” he finally said.
She did not look up. “I never forgot,” she replied. “I just stopped being asked.”
The words did not cut. They settled. Heavy, honest, undeniable.
He knelt beside her, unsure if proximity still meant permission. For the first time in a long while, he did not reach out. He waited.
And that was when she looked at him.
Not with anger. Not with longing. But with the quiet exhaustion of someone who had loved patiently for too long.
“I don’t need promises,” she said softly. “I need presence.”
He nodded, because anything else would have been a lie.
That night, the coffee cup was still cold. But for the first time, it was not alone.
