It didn’t work.
Nothing did.
Days turnedinto weeks. and I tried to behave like nothing had changed between us. That was the biggest mistake I could have made.
I made us coffee in the mornings. I made his lunch before I left for work. I cleaned the house even when it was already spotless, scrubbing at surfaces that didn’t need it just to keep my hands busy. I’d find myself standing at the kitchen sink, staring out the window, losing time. Like I was waiting for something to happen out there instead of behind me.
I told myself I was giving him space. Time to heal. That this was healthy. Responsible.
The kind of distance a man like me was supposed to keep.
It felt a lot like cowardice.
Elliot didn’t talk much anymore. Not really. Just the bare minimum—morning,thanks,I’ll be back later. Polite. Careful. Like every word was measured to make sure it didn’t linger too long between us.
What he did do was disappear into his phone.
It was always in his hand now. Thumbs moving fast. Screen lighting up his face at all hours. Sometimes I’d catch the corner of a smile before he noticed me watching and turned away. Other times he’d laugh—soft, surprised—like someone had said something just for him.
Not me.
I didn’t ask who he was talking to. I didn’t have the right. So I watched instead.
Cars started pulling up outside that weren’t mine. I’d hear them before I saw them—the crunch of tires on gravel, the low thrum of unfamiliar engines. Elliot would grab his jacket, phone already in his hand, and pause just long enough to say, “I’m heading out.”
No details. No explanations.
I stood at the window more than once and watched him jog down the steps, watched someone lean across a passenger seat to shove the door open for him. Heard laughter drift back through the open window before the car pulled away.
Too young. Too easy. Too loud. I told myself it was good. That this was what I wanted—for him to have people. Friends. A life that didn’t revolve around grief or the quiet tension of this house. People who could touch him freely. Joke without restraint. Want him without hesitation.
So why did my chest tighten every time his phone lit up? Why did I start memorizing the shapes of cars in the driveway, the cadence of voices outside, the timing of his returns?
Sometimes he came home smelling like smoke and cold air, eyes bright, cheeks flushed with something that looked dangerously close to happiness. He’d nod at me in passing, murmur a quick “night,” and disappear upstairs before I could say anything more.
I never followed. Instead, I pulled back even further. Shorter conversations. Fewer glances held too long. I told myself this was discipline. Control.
If he was finding warmth elsewhere, then maybe this distance—this careful, aching restraint—was the right thing to do.
Some days I felt like I would die on that hill, watching the only light I cared about drive away without me.
“Morning,” I said, neutral. Careful. It sounded forced and fake even to my own ears.
“Hey,” he replied. That same robotic neutral tone. It wasn’t cold. Just… empty of everything that had been there before.
Unable to stay away, I turned to face him. The sight of him stole my breath, and I clutched the dish rag between my hands tighter. He stood near the doorway, hair still damp from the shower, hoodie hanging loose on his frame. His face was calm.
Too calm. There was no redness around the eyes. No tension in the line of his mouth. No visible cracks. If I hadn’t known him better, I would’ve thought he was fine.
But I did know him. And he wasn’t. He was the furthest thing from fine.
He didn’t look at me for more than a second. Not like he was avoiding me like I was him. Just… not seeking me out like he once did.
That felt worse than anger. It was like cold hard rejection had built an insurmountable wall between us. The irony wasn’t lost on me: the fact I was the one who built it.
Out of habit, I made him a coffee and set it on the counter near to where he stood. He walked over and took it. Our fingers didn’t touch. A tiny, stupid thing to miss. Yet it felt enormous.
“Thanks.”
