I opened the fridge. The basil and thyme I’d bought were tucked into a glass of water on the top shelf, stems carefully trimmed. I stared at them for a second, then closed the door.
A few hours later, I tried breaking the silence.
“Hey, I saw you trimmed the basil and thyme. Is that the right way to store it?” I asked from the kitchen, keeping my tone light.
He was at the table, laptop open, but didn’t look up. “Yeah,” he said without inflection, eyes still on the screen.
Not unkind. Not sharp. Just… flat.
I nodded, even though he probably didn’t see it.
Later, I passed him in the hallway. He stepped aside politely. Said nothing.
I opened my mouth. Closed it again.
There was nothing to push against. Nothing to argue with.
Just space where he used to be.
I was still skimming through the last round of feedback when I heard a dull thud. Something heavy hitting the floor near the entry. Then came the soft metallic click of the door handle and the quiet latch of it closing behind him.
I glanced at my watch. Just past four.
From Nolan’s schedule, I knew there was a home game tonight.
I watched the third period on my laptop.
The commentators were polite about it, but it was there, subtext between the stats.
“Callahan’s off his rhythm tonight.”
“Something’s distracting him.”
I didn’t know what it was. But I knew it had started with that phone call two days ago. I’d heard his voice change. Afterward, he didn’t offer an explanation, and I hadn’t asked.
We barely saw each other anyway. But the shift was there: He’d stopped cooking, stopped leaving sticky notes on the kitchen counter, stopped being the version of himself that felt, weirdly, like mine.
So I didn’t go to bed.
I made tea and opened a journal article I’d been avoiding for weeks, one that had nothing to do with hockey or roommates or whatever this was turning into.
I made it five pages.
The next thing I knew, the front door clicked open.
I stayed still. Stalling. I needed a second to work up the nerve to say something.
Normally, I wouldn’t. Normally, I’d tell myself it wasn’t my place. That asking wouldn’t change anything.
But this felt different.
Because I noticed. And because… I wanted him to know that I noticed. That someone did.
Footsteps. A pause. Then—
“Advanced Neuromuscular Diagnostics,” he muttered, barely above a whisper. “No wonder you conked out.”
The couch shifted as he leaned in. Then the soft rustle of a blanket being pulled over my legs. I held still, not sure if I was dreaming.
