I take a breath - shallow, uncertain - and rise from the couch. My legs feel heavy, like they're carrying the weight of eighteen months of grief, guilt, and unspoken words. I walk slowly, deliberately, toward him. He doesn't look up. Not yet. But I speak anyway.
"I need to talk."
My voice is soft, but it cuts through the room like thunder. He turns, remote still in hand, eyes searching mine for meaning. I see the hesitation, the fear, the instinct to retreat. But I press on.
"I know this might not go well. I know you might shut down, or walk away, or say nothing at all. But I need to try. I need to come out of this shell. We need to."
He doesn't respond, but he doesn't move either. That's enough for now.
I sit beside him, close enough to feel the warmth of his body, distant enough to respect the space we've both clung to. The television continues to play, but neither of us is watching.
"I've been haunted," I say, my voice trembling. "By questions. By guilt. By the silence between us."
I pause, gathering the courage to speak the words that have lived inside me for too long.
"Why did we give up on ourselves? Why didn't we talk about our pain, our anger, our frustration? Why did we pretend that silence was healing, when it was only hiding?"
He shifts slightly, his fingers tightening around the remote. I reach out and gently take it from him, placing it on the table. Our eyes meet. There's no anger. Just exhaustion. And something else - something fragile.
"Why did we stop respecting each other? Stop believing in the foundation we built? Why didn't either of us take the first step sooner?"
I feel my throat tighten, my chest ache. But I keep going.
"Why have we become strangers in our own world?"
He looks away, toward the window, where the night has settled in. I follow his gaze, and for a moment, we sit in silence - not the kind that divides, but the kind that listens.
"I'm prepared," I whisper. "For whatever you need to say. Even if it's harsh. Even if it hurts. I'd rather face the storm than live in this dead silence."
He turns back to me, his eyes glassy, his expression unreadable. And then, slowly, he speaks.
"I didn't know how to reach you. I thought you needed space. I thought… maybe you blamed me."
His voice cracks, and I feel something shift inside me. A door opening. A wall crumbling.
"I never blamed you," I say, tears welling. "I blamed myself. Every day. Every night. I wished I had died with her."
He flinches, and I see the pain ripple through him. He reaches for my hand, hesitantly, and I let him take it. He shuts his eyes, a single tear escaping down his cheek.
"We're broken," I whisper. "But maybe… maybe we can rebuild."
He looks at me, really looks at me, for the first time in what feels like forever. And I see it - the flicker of hope, buried beneath the rubble of sorrow.
"I'm scared," he admits. "Scared that if we open this door, we won't be able to close it again."
"I know," I say. "Me too. But we've already lost so much. What more is there to lose?"
He doesn't answer. Instead, he nods slowly, and I feel his hand tighten around mine.