The day dragged in a way that made time feel heavier, each hour stretching endlessly. I kept busy with small tasks around the apartment, pretending that doing laundry, organizing the bookshelves, or even watering the plants could fill the hollow ache of tension that clung to every corner of our shared space. But no matter what I did, he was always there, a shadow at the edge of my awareness, impossibly near yet maddeningly distant.
I tried to avoid him in the morning, retreating to my room, headphones in, music loud enough to drown out the quiet hum of his presence. But by midday, he was in the living room, reading a newspaper as if nothing had changed between us. The way he existed so effortlessly, so calmly, was infuriating. I wanted to yell, to demand space, to assert myself—but every time I opened my mouth, the words faltered.
"You seem… tense," he said casually, glancing up from his paper.
I froze mid-step, blinking at him. "I'm fine," I lied, sharper than I intended.
He raised an eyebrow, the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Fine," he echoed, clearly unconvinced. "We both know you're not. You can't hide everything."
I felt a flicker of something—annoyance? fear?—and tried to ignore it. "Why do you care?" I asked, my voice small.
"Because it matters," he said, folding the newspaper with deliberate calm. "Not just to me, but… to us."
Us. The word hit harder than I expected, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. Us. We weren't a team. We weren't partners. Not yet. And yet, the idea of denying him, of pretending he wasn't here, was proving increasingly impossible.
I stormed to my room, slamming the door behind me. My heart thudded, each beat echoing in the silent apartment. I shouldn't care about what he thought, what he wanted. And yet, part of me ached to see him, to hear his voice, to acknowledge the strange pull that seemed to exist between us despite everything.
Hours later, as the sun began to dip behind the skyline, a soft knock came at my door. I hesitated before opening it, only to find him standing there, hands in his pockets, eyes carefully neutral.
"I didn't want to disturb you," he said, "but…" He trailed off, and for a long moment, neither of us spoke. Then he stepped closer, just a fraction too close, and my chest tightened. "There's something you should know," he said quietly. "Something I didn't tell you last night."
I felt my stomach drop. Secrets. Of course there were secrets. I had expected them, dreaded them, and now they were here, between us, like a sharp blade hidden beneath a velvet cloth.
"What is it?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
He hesitated, then met my gaze with a weight I hadn't seen before. "Not everything about our marriage… is as simple as it seems," he said.
And just like that, the fragile truce we'd been holding began to crumble. I realized, with a sinking certainty, that surviving him—or understanding him—would be far more complicated than I'd imagined.
The shadows between us had grown longer, and the night was only just beginning.