The day does not help.
Everywhere I go, I notice her absence first. Not because she is missing from the camp. Because she is missing from me in the places that had begun to settle. The way my eyes look for her automatically. The way my body still expects the line of her scent near me by midday. The way my mind keeps turning back to the morning with useless repetition.
I should have asked more directly. I should have said less. I should have held her. I should have left sooner.
None of the answers settles.
When I see her later near the supply tent, she is with Oshara and two younger women, measuring cloth and tying bundles. Her face is composed. Her movements are correct. No one looking at her from the outside would think anything is wrong.
I know better.
I step toward them before deciding to, then stop.
Oshara sees me first. Her gaze moves from me to Keandra and back again in one sharp look. She knows something is wrong too.Whether she sees it in me, in Keandra, or in both of us, I cannot tell.
Keandra does not look up until Oshara says something to her.
When she does, her eyes meet mine across the worktable, and distance still lingers. Not anger. Not rejection. Something worse because it is quieter.
I almost cross the space anyway.
Instead, because the women are working and because Keandra’s body is held too carefully and because forcing closeness in front of Oshara and the others would be as much for my own comfort as hers, I only say, “The north wraps will need checking by nightfall.”
It is an excuse.
A coward’s excuse.
Keandra nods. “We’ll finish here first.”
We.
Not I. Not your wife. Not anything turned toward me.
The small word should not matter. It does.
I leave again because staying would either break my restraint or make me say something harsh simply to break the ache of being held at arm’s length in my own camp.
By evening, the distance has only sharpened.
Keandra returns to the tent later than usual, smelling of dust, cloth, dried herbs, and the women’s fire. She is tired. I can see that. Tired enough that she moves more slowly while setting aside her wrap, tired enough that if things between us were right, I would have pulled her straight to food and furs and quiet without a second thought.
Now every ordinary act feels dangerous with meaning.
I have food waiting. Fresh water. The better blanket is near the brazier because the night wind has cooled.
I have done all the same things I have done every day. From the outside, nothing has changed. From the inside, everything has.
Keandra notices the food, the water, and the blanket. I see her notice them. I see the exact moment she makes herself not react.
That wounds me more than open accusation would have.
We eat in silence first.
Then, when the silence has gone from heavy to unbearable, I say, “If I pressed you this morning, it was wrong.”
The words surprise even me. They also make Keandra go still.
I set down the cup in my hand and force myself to continue. “I did not know if speaking more would help or harm. So I spoke less.”
