The house was quiet when I returned.

The faint tick of the clock echoed through the wide, dimly lit living room.

Elijah sat on the couch, sleeves rolled up, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand. The city lights poured through the tall windows behind him, brushing against the sharp lines of his face.

He didn’t look up right away.

But I felt his eyes follow me the moment I stepped in.

I set my bag down by the stairs, keeping my voice steady. “I’m home.”

No response. Just the soft sound of ice clinking in his glass.

I didn’t wait for a greeting. I walked toward the kitchen, each step measured, calm. I’d long stopped expecting warmth.

Behind me, Elijah’s gaze lingered. He noticed.

How I didn’t ask if he’d eaten.

Didn’t ask if he wanted me to prepare anything.

Didn’t even glance in his direction.

She’s pretending I’m not here, he thought coldly.

His fingers tightened around the glass. She used to ask me everything — if I was tired, if I wanted dinner, if I was coming to bed. Now she moves like a stranger.

I filled a glass of water and drank quietly, my back turned to him.

She doesn’t even look anymore.

It’s like I’m invisible in my own house.

He leaned back slowly, his jaw tightening. He could tell she was keeping her distance deliberately, like she was playing a game.

Hard to get.

But Jenna didn’t look like a woman playing. Her eyes were hollow, her face pale from holding too much in.

When I walked past him again, he caught a faint trace of my perfume — familiar, clean, something that used to ground him. But tonight, it only made him restless.

She’s getting quiet. Too quiet.

For a long moment, he watched me walk away — no questions, no hesitation, no trace of the woman who used to wait by the door just to make sure he came home safe.

Now she just disappears.

His eyes dropped to his drink, the amber liquid catching the light

Let her keep pretending, he told himself.

Let her act indifferent.

It won’t last.

But as the sound of my footsteps faded up the stairs, his chest tightened unexpectedly — a flicker of something sharp and unfamiliar tightening inside him.

He didn’t understand it, didn’t want to.

He leaned back, closing his eyes briefly.

She’s really not going to say a word.

When he opened them again, the stairs were empty.

The house felt colder.

He lifted his glass, finishing what was left, letting the burn trail down his throat.

Maybe silence was what she wanted.

Fine. She could have it.

Yet as the quiet stretched through the room, he found himself listening — waiting — for the soft sound of her door closing upstairs.

And when it finally came, he realized he’d been holding his breath.

Sunlight crept through the tall curtains, spilling soft gold across the marble floor. The air was still — too still — except for the faint clatter of dishes coming from the kitchen.

Jenna was already awake.

Elijah stood at the top of the stairs, his hair slightly disheveled, tie draped loosely around his neck. From where he stood, he could see her — sitting by the dining table, perfectly composed, sipping tea as if last night had never happened.

There was no trace of tears. No nervous glances in his direction. No greeting when he descended the stairs.

Just silence.

She didn’t even look up.

He paused halfway, eyes narrowing slightly. Something in his chest tightened — irritation or confusion, he couldn’t tell.

No “Good morning.”

No “Did you sleep well?”

Not even a polite nod.

She moved as though the house belonged only to her.

He walked toward the table, the sound of his shoes echoing lightly against the floor. She didn’t flinch, didn’t acknowledge him — not even when he sat down opposite her.

Her plate was neatly arranged — toast, sliced fruit, and a small cup of tea.

His side, untouched. Not even a second plate waiting for him.

She always set the table for two.

Always.

He stared at the empty space in front of him.

Then at her.

She calmly spread jam across her toast, her movements graceful and unhurried. The sunlight caught her face — pale, soft, unreadable. It annoyed him that he couldn’t read her anymore.

He cleared his throat slightly, though he didn’t say a word.

Still nothing.

Not even a glance.

She finished her tea, set the cup down gently, and stood. Her robe brushed lightly against the chair as she pushed it in.

“I’ll be late coming back today,” she said quietly. Her tone was calm — polite, almost distant — as if she were talking to a colleague, not her husband.

Elijah’s gaze lifted slowly, his expression unreadable.

She didn’t wait for permission or response.

She just turned and walked away.

No warmth. No tension. Just quiet finality.

He watched her go, his eyes following the gentle sway of her hair as she disappeared into the hallway.

The faint click of her heels on the marble grew softer until there was nothing left but silence.

He sat there for a long time afterward, his breakfast untouched.

Something about her calmness gnawed at him.

She’s too composed.

Too quiet.

He leaned back in his chair, his fingers tracing the rim of his untouched coffee cup. He wasn’t used to this version of her — one that didn’t wait for him to speak, didn’t rush to please him, didn’t fill the silence with small talk just to keep the peace.

Now, there was only distance — neat, deliberate, and sharp.

He didn’t like it.

But he couldn’t say why.

At least when she cried, he could control the situation.

Now she gave him nothing to hold on to — no anger, no pleading, no tears.

Just quiet indifference.

He stood finally, buttoning his jacket with slow, steady movements. His reflection in the mirror looked the same as always — composed, commanding, unreadable — but something beneath the surface wasn’t as still.

He picked up his car keys, his thoughts colder than his expression.

She’s learning to pretend I don’t exist.

Fine. Let’s see how long she can keep it up.

He left without another word.

But as he stepped into the car, the faint sound of porcelain breaking from the kitchen reached him — soft, fragile, like something had slipped from trembling fingers.

He froze for half a second, his hand tightening on the steering wheel.

Then he looked away, started th

e engine, and drove off.

He told himself it didn’t matter.

But his heart didn’t agree.