The loneliest place Amara knew wasn't an empty room.
It was lying beside someone who no longer reached for her.
Daniel still touched her sometimes—an arm draped over her waist in sleep, a kiss pressed absentmindedly to her forehead. But it felt automatic, like muscle memory instead of desire.
She missed intention.
One night, she turned toward him. "Do you still feel close to me?"
Daniel opened one eye. "What kind of question is that?"
"A real one."
He sighed. "Amara, why do you complicate things? We're fine."
Fine.
The word echoed painfully.
She turned away, blinking back tears. She didn't want reassurance. She wanted connection.
Behind her, Daniel fell asleep within minutes.
Amara lay awake for hours, staring into darkness, realizing that being chosen once didn't mean being chosen continually.