Second Choice: Wife by contract

Morning comes like nothing happened. That’s the worst part. Sunlight slips through the curtains like it always does. Soft. Indifferent. I lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to decide if I imagined last night. If maybe my mind filled in gaps that weren’t real. I do that sometimes. Make stories out of silence. Ethan is already awake. I can tell by the way the bed feels different. Less warm. Less him. He’s in the bathroom when I finally get up. I sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the sound of running water. The shower. Steady. Familiar. Normal. I press my feet flat against the floor and take a breath that feels heavier than it should. I tell myself: Today, just be normal. Downstairs, the house smells like coffee. That small comfort almost undoes me. For a second, I feel something close to gratitude. Or maybe habit. It’s hard to tell the difference anymore. Ethan is standing by the counter, scrolling through his phone with one hand, mug in the othe

Morning ruins everything. Not in a dramatic way. Just quietly. Light creeping in, thin and unforgiving. The kind that makes things clearer than you want them to be. He was already dressed when I woke up. That’s how I know something is wrong before I even open my eyes properly. His side of the bed is cold. Empty in that way that feels intentional. Like he didn’t just leave. Like he left carefully. I sit up, pulling the sheet higher even though there’s no one left to see me. Habit. Or dignity. Or maybe both. He’s by the window, phone in hand, voice low. Controlled. CEO voice. The one he uses when he’s back in the world that doesn’t include me. “Yes,” he says. Then pauses. “That works.” There’s no trace of last night in his tone. No warmth. No softness. Like it never happened. Like I never happened. I swallow. When he finally turns, his eyes flick to me for half a second. Not unkind. Just… distant. Polite, almost. Like I’m a room he passed through and already forgot.

I answer him first. I don’t know why. Maybe because it’s easier. Maybe because pretending everything is normal feels safer than opening something I won’t know how to close. I’ll be late, he texts. Work ran long. Late still means later. Later still means something, right? Okay, I reply. One word. Neutral. Calm. I hate how practiced I am at sounding fine. I put the phone down and immediately pick it back up. Celeste is still there. Waiting. I can feel it. Like a presence in the room even though she’s nowhere near me. I pace. Kitchen to window. Window to couch. My fingers feel restless. My chest feels too tight for the amount of air in the apartment. I type to her. “What do you want to talk about?” The reply comes slower this time. Thoughtful. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she says. “I just don’t want to be confused anymore.” That makes two of us. I sit on the edge of the couch. Press my toes into the rug. Ground myself. My hands are shaking and I don’t know when t

Morning comes quietly. No dramatic wake-up. No alarms blaring. Just light creeping through the curtains and the slow realization that I didn’t sleep as much as I pretended to. Ethan is already awake. I know because his breathing is different. Lighter. Controlled. The way it always is when he’s thinking. I stay still. My body pressed into his, his arm still around me like nothing is wrong. Like last night didn’t crack something open in my chest. He shifts first. Careful. Gentle. Like he’s trying not to wake me, or maybe like he’s trying not to disturb whatever illusion we built overnight. I open my eyes anyway. “Morning,” he says softly. “Morning.” His voice says husband. His eyes say distance. He kisses my forehead before getting out of bed. That small, automatic gesture. The one that makes my chest ache because it’s tender and empty at the same time. I watch him dress. Shirt. Cufflinks. Watch. Everything precise. Everything in control. I sit up. The words sit heavy on my

The house feels different when I get back. Too quiet. Like it’s waiting. I drop my keys on the counter harder than I need to. The sound echoes. I don’t care. I walk into the kitchen, pour myself a glass of water, forget to drink it. My hands shake a little. I press them flat against the counter until they stop. I tell myself not to rehearse what I’ll say. I rehearse anyway. The door opens an hour later. I know it’s him before I see him. His footsteps are familiar. Measured. Like he’s always aware of the space he takes up. He doesn’t call my name this time. He loosens his tie, sets his phone down face up. A detail I notice and immediately hate myself for noticing. “You’re home,” he says. “So are you.” We stand there. The air between us feels thick. Like everything we didn’t finish saying this morning followed us back and settled in the corners. He comes closer. Stops a few feet away. “You eat?” he asks. I almost laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because it’s so him. Careful.