No TV noise.
No clatter of a spoon against a bowl.
No footfalls in the hallway.
Just the soft hum of the refrigerator motor and the occasional tick of the thermostat.
I take another step, and my legs go weak, like my body finally catches up to the fact that I’ve been holding myself together with my fingernails all day. All week.
The image hits me without warning—walking through this door again.
Tomorrow.
Next week.
Next month.
Forever.
Walking into this house and hearing nothing.
Walking past the kitchen and not seeing him at the stove, pretending he’s fine.
Walking down the hall and not hearing the shower running, not seeing the bathroom light under the door.
No “Goodnight” from his room.
No “How was work?” asked, even when he’s exhausted, even when the answer is boring.
Just emptiness.
My vision blurs instantly.
I blink, hard, but it doesn’t help. Tears spill anyway, hot and fast.
“No,” I whisper, like saying it out loud can stop my brain from writing an ending I don’t want.
My mouth trembles.
My hands shake.
I press my palm to my sternum like I can physically hold my heart in place.
The fear is thick, heavy, choking.
And then the shame crawls up right behind it, because of course it does. Because my head can’t just be one kind of fucked up at a time.
I think of Nico’s hand on mine in the office.
His calm voice.
The way he didn’t flinch when I threw my bitterness at him like a weapon.
You didn’t pay for it this time.
The words replay, and my stomach twists so hard I gag a little.
I hate that I said it.
