The drive home felt longer than it should've. The streets were quiet, but my mind wasn't.
By the time I pulled into the driveway, the headlights washed over her car, parked exactly where it always was.
She was home.
For a second, I just sat there, hands still on the steering wheel, the car's engine humming softly. I didn't know why I hesitated. It wasn't like we'd argued this morning. Not exactly. But the silence between us was starting to feel a lot like an argument that never ended.
Eventually, I killed the engine and got out. The night air was cool, but it did nothing to clear my head. I reached the door, hand on the handle, and stopped again.
Ridiculous, I know.
It was my own house. Our house. But lately, walking through that door felt like stepping into a test I hadn't studied for.
I pushed it open anyway and the faint smell of dinner hit me first, something warm, probably chicken. Aline was at the dining table, arranging plates like she always did.
