Chapter 8

The first night, he sleeps on the edge of the bed. She thinks it’s an accident.

The mattress dips differently. Not the familiar weight that used to pull her toward him in the dark, but a careful, measured indentation. As if he’s trying not to exist.

Ava keeps her eyes closed.

The room smells faintly of detergent and the rain that came through the open window earlier. She listens to him settle. The soft rustle of sheets. The quiet exhale through his nose.

He used to reach for her without waking.

Hand sliding over her waist. Fingers hook into the hem of her shirt. A sleepy, “Come here, Ava,” against the back of her neck.

Tonight, there’s nothing, just distance.

She shifts slightly. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that her calf brushes the empty stretch of mattress between them.

He stills for a second. She thinks he might move closer, but he doesn’t.

Instead, she hears him inhale sharply, then roll—further away. The bedsprings creak in protest.

Ava opens her eyes to the dark.

“Matt?” she whispers.

“Yeah.”

His voice sounds far, like it traveled.

“You okay?”

“Just tired.”

She waits for more. A hand reaching back. Something, but nothing comes.

She nods even though he can’t see her. “Okay.”

Her hand hovers in the space between them. It feels ridiculous, suspended there. She lowers it slowly, folding it under her cheek.

The silence presses in. Thick and louder than any fight they’ve ever had.

By the third night, it isn’t an accident.

He lies down stiffly, careful not to disturb her. Leaves a strip of cool sheet between their bodies like a boundary line. His back to her.

She pretends to be asleep.

He doesn’t touch her, not even by mistake.

Once, when he turns over, his elbow almost grazes her arm. He pulls it back quickly, like she’s hot to the touch.

She swallows.

In the dark, she studies the outline of him. The slope of his shoulder. The shadow of his jaw.

“Matthew,” she says softly.

He used to like it when she said his full name in the dark. Said it made him feel wanted.

He doesn’t respond at first.

Then, “What?”

Her throat tightens. She almost forgets what she meant to say.

“I—” She stops. Starts again. “You’re falling off the bed.”

“I’m fine."

“You don’t have to—”

“I said I’m fine.”

The words land between them like a door shutting.

She turns onto her back. Stares at the ceiling. “Okay.”

The couch starts a week later.

She wakes in the middle of the night to cold sheets beside her. Her heart kicks.

She slips out of bed, padding down the hallway.

The living room lamp is still on. A soft yellow glow.

He’s there. Curled on the far end of the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes. Blanket half on the floor.

She stands in the doorway for a long moment.

“Matthew.”

He lowers his arm slowly. Blinks at her like she’s a stranger in his house.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“In our bed?”

“It’s too warm.”

She looks back down the hallway. It’s November.

“Oh.” She nods. “Do you want another blanket?”

“I’m good.”

She steps closer anyway, bending to pick up the fallen edge of it. Their fingers almost touch when she drapes it over him.

He pulls his hand back before contact.

Her chest tightens, but she smooths the fabric over his shoulder like she doesn’t notice.

“You’ll hurt your neck,” she murmurs.

“I’ve slept on worse.”

She straightens and watches him for a second longer.

“Come back to bed.”

He looks at the ceiling. “I don’t want to wake you.”

“You won’t.”

“I will.”

She nods slowly. “Okay.”

She walks back to their bedroom alone.

He doesn’t follow.

At breakfast in the morning, the quiet is different.

Fork against plate. The low hum of the refrigerator. The clock is ticking above the stove.

Matthew sits across from her, sleeves rolled up, staring at his coffee.

She watches his hands instead of his face.

He used to reach across the table and steal food from her plate. Used to nudge her knee under the table.

Now his legs are angled away.

She pushes her eggs around. “You didn’t come back to bed.”

“I know.”

He takes a sip of coffee.

“That couch is going to ruin your back,” she says, attempting lightness.

“I’ll survive.”

A tiny smile pulls at her mouth. “You always hated that couch.”

He shrugs.

She looks up at him then, trying to catch his eyes.

He’s already looking down.

“Can you look at me for a second?” she asks before she can stop herself.

His hand pauses midair.

“What?”

“Just—” She exhales. “Look at me.”

Slowly, he lifts his gaze.

It brushes past her face. Lands somewhere near her shoulder.

“Happy?”

Her fingers tighten around her fork. “That’s not looking at me.”

“I am looking at you.”

“No. You’re not.”

His jaw tightens. “I have to go to work.”

“You don’t start for another hour.”

He stands anyway. Carries his plate to the sink.

She watches his back. The familiar broadness of it. The way she used to press her face between his shoulders when he washed dishes.

“Are you mad at me?” she asks quietly.

“No.”

“Then what is this?”

He shuts the faucet off. The sudden silence rings.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

She stands, too. “Something.”

He turns around finally. There’s something shuttered behind his eyes.

“I’m tired,” he says.

“Of what?”

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he grabs his keys from the counter.

“Matthew.” Her voice cracks just slightly.

He pauses at the door.

“Lock up when you leave,” he says.

The door closes softly behind him.

That night, she makes pasta. His favorite, extra garlic. The way he likes.

He sits across from her again.

“Smells good,” he says.

“Thank you.”

He twirls the pasta carefully, methodically.

She watches him take a bite.

“Well?”

“It’s good.”

“That’s it?”

He shrugs. “It’s pasta.”

She sets her fork down. “You used to say it tasted like Sunday.”

A faint flicker crosses his face. Gone too quickly to name.

“People exaggerate.”

She stares at him. “Do you hear yourself?”

He leans back in his chair. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to stop acting like I’m—” She cuts herself off. Breathes in. Out. “Like I’m a roommate.”

His gaze drops to the table.

“You’re not a roommate.”

“Then why won’t you touch me?”

He goes very still. “I do touch you.”

“No, you don’t.” Her voice is softer now. “You don’t even brush against me anymore.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.” She swallows. “You don’t call me Ava.”

His head lifts slightly.

“You used to say it like it meant something.” She forces a small laugh. “Now I’m just… ‘you.’ Or nothing.”

He pushes his plate away.

“I didn’t realize that was a crime.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“Then what are you saying?”

She looks at him. “I’m saying I miss my husband.”

Something flashes across his face. Pain? Anger? Regret?

He stands abruptly. The chair scrapes harshly against the floor.

“I’m right here.”

“Are you?”

The question is barely audible.

He runs a hand through his hair. Paces once toward the living room. Stops.

“You think I don’t feel this?” he says, not turning around.

“Then talk to me.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Try.”

He laughs once. Short and bitter.

“You think this is easy for me?”

She stands slowly and walks toward him.

He doesn’t move away this time, but he doesn’t move closer either.

They stand a foot apart. Close enough to feel each other’s warmth.

“Then stop running,” she whispers.

“I’m not running.”

“You sleep on the couch.”

He looks at her then.

His eyes are red at the edges.

“If I sleep next to you,” he says quietly, “I remember things.”

Her heart stutters. “What things?”

He hesitates.

“Us.”

The word lands heavily. She reaches for him without thinking. Her fingers brush his wrist.

For a second—just a second—he lets her. Then he steps back.

The loss of contact feels louder than a slap.

“I can’t,” he says.

“Can’t what?”

“I can’t feel everything all at once.”

Her throat burns. “So you feel nothing instead?”

He doesn’t answer.

The space between them widens again.

She nods slowly. “Okay.”

He looks like he wants to say more. His mouth opened and closed.

“Goodnight,” he says.

He walks to the couch.

She stands in the middle of the living room, listening to the sound of him settling into it. The familiar creak. The quiet exhale.

She turns off the lights one by one.

In the dark hallway, she pauses.

“Matthew?” she calls softly.

“Yeah?”

She grips the doorframe.

“I’m still here.”

Then, quieter—almost swallowed by the dark—

“I know.”

Ava goes to bed alone again, lying in the center this time.

The mattress feels too big and too cold.