14 years. Two kids. A house we built together. And last night at 1 AM, I watched it all start to slip away.
We were lying in bed. Lights off. Both staring at the ceiling. I could feel the space between us like a wall.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she said.
“Do what?” I asked. Even though I knew.
“This.” She gestured at the gap between our bodies. “Whatever this is. The way you forget everything I say. The way you tune out mid-conversation. The way we live in the same house but I feel like I’m talking to a ghost.”
