The next morning, Mark found a note on the kitchen counter: "I'm staying with my sister for a while. I need space." Emily's handwriting was shaky, like she'd hesitated before leaving. He didn't call her. Instead, he sat there, coffee cooling in his mug, wondering when "space" had become their default.
Emily, at her sister's, stared out the window, replaying their last real fight - months ago, over something trivial like laundry. She'd yelled, he'd shut down, and they'd never resolved it. She missed him, but not the version she'd lived with lately. She missed the Mark who'd once surprised her with a picnic in the rain. Where had he gone?
Days turned into a week. Mark walked past the canvas every night, its unfinished state mocking him. Finally, he picked up a brush, dipped it in red, and slashed a line across it - not out of anger, but desperation. He texted her a photo of it: "I don't know how to fix this. Do you?"
Her reply came hours later: "I don't know either. But I'll come home tomorrow. Let's try." They weren't sure what "try" meant, but for the first time in months, the silence felt less permanent.