Chapter 2

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 other. White shirt. Sleeves rolled up. He looks… good. Effortlessly so. Like the kind of man women fall in love with without meaning to.

“Morning,” he says, not looking up.

“Morning,” I reply, and my voice sounds steadier than I feel. I’m proud of that. A little.

We move around each other easily, like we’ve rehearsed this. I reach for a mug. He steps aside without thinking. Our arms brush, just barely and I freeze for half a second longer than necessary.

He doesn’t notice.

Or he does, and pretends not to.

We sit across from each other at the table. The space between us feels intentional. Designed. I sip my coffee even though it’s too hot. I welcome the sting on my tongue. Another thing to focus on.

He asks me about my day. Casually. Like a good husband should.

“I have lunch with my sister,” I say. “Then… I don’t know. Probably errands.”

He nods. “Sounds nice.”

Nice. I wonder when my life became something that could be described that way. Not happy. Not fulfilling. Just… nice.

There’s a pause. Not an uncomfortable one. Worse. A practiced one.

I want to ask him something. Anything. I want to ask where he was last night. Who he was talking to. If he meant what he said. If he even remembers saying it.

But the words get stuck somewhere between my chest and my mouth. Heavy. Uncooperative.

Instead, I say, “You’ll be late again?”

He hesitates. Just a fraction. I notice because I’m always watching him. Always measuring the spaces between his reactions.

“Yeah,” he says. “Work.”

Of course.

He stands, already done with breakfast. Already elsewhere. He leans down and presses a quick kiss to my forehead. It’s brief. Almost affectionate. Almost convincing.

My body reacts before my heart can stop it. A stupid, traitorous warmth spreads through me. I hate it. I hate how little it takes.

“Have a good day,” he says.

“You too.”

The door closes behind him, and the house exhales.

I sit there long after my coffee goes cold, staring at the empty chair across from me. I try to pinpoint when I started feeling like this. Like I’m always arriving just after something important has left.

I tell myself I’m overreacting. That marriages have quiet days. Quiet years, even. That not every love looks loud.

But there’s a thought I can’t shake. It curls around my ribs and presses in gently, insistently.

If he can sound like that for someone else…

Why has he never sounded like that for me?

I stand up abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. The noise feels too loud in the empty room. I press my palms to the counter and breathe.

This is fine, I tell myself.

This is what I agreed to.

Still, as I rinse my mug and watch the coffee swirl down the drain, I can’t help wondering—

How long can a person live inside a marriage and still feel like a guest?

And why does part of me already know the answer… even if I’m not ready to say it out loud?