I step out of my room, the cool water still dripping from my face, trailing down my neck like tiny reminders of the effort it takes just to feel awake. The hallway is dimly lit, the air heavy with stillness. My bare feet press into the cold tiles, each step echoing faintly in the silence that has become our home's default setting.
As I enter the living room, the faint hum of his laptop fills the space, accompanied by the rhythmic clacking of keys - sharp, relentless, almost aggressive. He's there, sunk deep into the couch cushions, his posture slouched, eyes locked onto the screen.
The glow from the monitor casts a pale light across his face, highlighting the furrow in his brow and the tension in his jaw. He doesn't look up. He doesn't need to. He knows it's me. The ghost. The woman who drifts through rooms without sound, without purpose.
The air smells faintly of stale coffee and the lingering scent of his cologne - once comforting, now distant. The couch, once our shared haven, where we'd curl up together, laugh until our stomachs hurt, and whisper dreams into each other's ears, now bears the imprint of his solitary nights.
It was where we planned our future, where we decided we were ready to bring life into this world. And now, it's his refuge from me. The blanket tossed carelessly over the armrest, the empty mug on the side table, the faint indentation where he's been sleeping - these are the new symbols of our togetherness.
His silence is deafening. It's not ignorance - it's avoidance. A carefully constructed facade of indifference. I can almost hear the inner monologue playing in his head: "Don't engage. Don't ask. Don't feel. If I pretend everything's fine, maybe she won't start that conversation again - the one that always ends in tears, accusations, and the unbearable truth we both refuse to face." He's built a fortress of practicality around himself, and I'm the storm he's trying to keep out.
And so, he buries himself in work. He's been doing that a lot lately - long hours, late nights, and more than a few nights spent on that couch. I've started to wonder if the scent of grief that clings to me repels him. Maybe it reminds him too much of what we lost. Of what I became. Of what we both failed to hold on to.