I stand there, watching his back, aching for something I can't name. There's a pull inside me - a desperate, trembling urge to walk over, sit beside him, rest my head on his shoulder, and ask the questions that have been clawing at my insides: "What happened to us? Why does our loss feel like two separate tragedies? Why are we grieving alone when we once promised to face everything together?"
I want him to hold me. To tell me we'll be okay. That we can try again. That I'm not broken. That I'll be a wonderful mother someday. That he still sees me - not just the grief, not just the pain, but me.
But reality is cruel. My knees feel weak, my chest tight. A tear slips down my cheek, warm and slow, and I taste salt as it reaches my lips. My vision blurs, and the room tilts slightly. I steady myself against the wall, the texture rough beneath my fingertips, grounding me in this unbearable reality.
He keeps typing. The keys click louder now, like a metronome marking the distance between us. He doesn't turn. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't see me unraveling just a few feet away.
And in that moment, I realize: this silence isn't just absence. It's a quiet, deliberate choice. A decision to grieve alone. To survive separately. To avoid the collision that might finally force us to feel everything we've been running from.