I walk toward the kitchen, hoping the mundane might offer a momentary escape from the storm inside my head. The air is thick with the scent of cumin and ghee - warm, familiar, almost comforting. The cook has done her part, neatly arranging the dishes on the counter, each one steaming gently under the soft glow of the overhead light.
My stomach lets out a low, reluctant gurgle, a reminder that I haven't eaten properly in days. But hunger feels like a distant concept - something that belongs to a version of me that used to care.
I serve myself a small portion, more out of obligation than desire. The plate feels heavy in my hands, the clink of the spoon against ceramic louder than it should be in the silence of this house. I choose to eat at the counter, standing, facing the wall - another deliberate act of avoidance. Not just his game anymore. Mine too.
We've both mastered the art of silence, of sidestepping each other's pain. It's hard to remember who started it, or why neither of us ever called a timeout to pull us back into the space we once called home.
As I take the first bite, the taste barely registers. But the act of eating triggers something deeper - a memory, vivid and cruel.
I'm transported to a time when our world was vibrant, full of laughter and light. We had dated for a year before deciding to take the plunge.
Marriage was our leap of faith, and the honeymoon phase was everything we'd hoped for - spontaneous weekend getaways, late-night cooking experiments, tangled sheets and whispered dreams. Our careers were demanding, yes, but we were disciplined, respectful of each other's boundaries, and fiercely protective of our personal time. We were a team. A unit. A force.