The second day was colder. The air had that subtle bite that crept through the windows even when they were shut, a chill that didn't come from weather so much as from absence — of familiarity, of warmth, of noise. It wasn't the kind of cold you noticed right away. It settled slowly into your bones.
Aisha emerged from the bedroom just after seven.
Evan had already laid out breakfast. Two plates, two eggs, toast, a quiet attempt at routine. He didn't know if she'd like boiled or fried, so he'd gone with one of each. She looked at the table and gave a small nod of acknowledgment.
"You didn't have to," she said.
"I know," Evan replied, pouring tea into her mug. "But I thought maybe we could start somewhere."
She pulled out the chair carefully, like she was unsure if she was allowed to sit. Then she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and lowered herself into it without meeting his eyes.
He sat opposite her, quietly watching.
"I don't usually eat early," she said softly.
He nodded. "That's okay."
"But thank you."
A pause.
"You're welcome."
The food sat untouched for a moment. He picked at his toast. She stirred her tea twice and didn't take a sip. Outside, a dog barked distantly. A delivery truck passed.
Evan cleared his throat.
"You don't have to stay home all day," he said. "I mean, if you want to go out, or visit your parents—"
"I'll wait," she said quickly. "A few more days, at least."
He nodded. "I wasn't suggesting—"
"I know," she said, her voice tight. "It's just… I want to try."
The word hung between them.
Try.
Not "love," not "belong," not even "build." Just try.
He wanted to respond — to say something reassuring, even kind — but there was something in her posture, the careful way she avoided his gaze, that told him she wasn't ready for comfort. Not yet.
They ate in silence after that.
Halfway through, she surprised him by asking, "Do you always read before bed?"
He blinked. "I—yeah. Usually."
"I noticed the book on the nightstand," she said, eyes fixed on her plate. "Didn't mean to look."
"It's fine," he said. "I read when I can't sleep."
"Did you sleep last night?"
He didn't answer immediately.
"I'm used to quiet," he finally said. "But that was a different kind of quiet."
Her mouth pulled into a barely-there smile. "Yeah."
She rose from the table and took her plate to the sink. He watched her rinse it — the way her sleeves slipped back, revealing the soft bend of her wrist. She moved with purpose but not ease. Still floating. Still uncertain of the floor under her.
That night, she set a pillow between them.
Not as a wall, not even as a signal — but as something neutral. Something that made the shared space less sharp. Evan noticed it when he returned from brushing his teeth. She was already under the covers, curled slightly away from the middle.
He didn't move the pillow.
Instead, he lay down beside her, the gap between them filled with silence and cotton and a thousand things unsaid.
She didn't say goodnight.
Neither did he.
But he listened to her breathing — slow, deliberate — and let it guide his own. And though he couldn't see her face, he pictured it: eyes closed, lips still, trying not to think too much. Like him.
Days passed in quiet repetition.
Breakfast. Silence. A few exchanged words. Her errands. His work.
Evenings were the same — two people sharing a house, a table, a bathroom sink. Never arguing. Never connecting. Just existing side by side, each too polite to step in, too unsure to step out.
But small changes came anyway. The kinds of changes that didn't announce themselves.
One evening, she folded his clean laundry without being asked. Another day, he brought home her favorite yogurt without her having to write it down.
Once, he came home to find her humming under her breath while organizing the bookshelf. When she saw him watching, she stopped, cheeks flushed.
He said nothing, just set down the groceries and asked if she needed help.
"No," she'd said. "I'm almost done."
But her voice wasn't cold that time. Just surprised.
The first fight came on a Wednesday.
It was about the heater.
He'd turned it off when he left for work. She'd come home earlier than usual and found the apartment freezing. She didn't say anything right away. She just wrapped herself in a blanket and waited until he walked in.
"I don't understand why it's always off," she said, before he could take off his coat.
Evan blinked. "It's been warm most days."
"Not today."
"I didn't think you'd be home early."
"That's not the point."
He paused. "Then what is?"
She stood straighter. "The point is, this isn't just your space anymore. It's ours. And I shouldn't feel like a guest in it."
He didn't reply at first. Her words were calm. Not cruel. Not emotional. But clear. Firm.
"You're right," he said finally.
Aisha blinked, caught off guard.
He walked to the thermostat and adjusted it.
"It won't happen again," he said.
She didn't thank him. Just nodded once and walked into the bedroom.
The door stayed open.
That night, when he lay down beside her, she didn't curl away.
Two days later, something shifted.
They were doing the dishes — her washing, him drying. A quiet routine that had somehow become theirs without discussion.
"Did you always live alone before?" she asked, handing him a plate.
"Yes."
"No roommates? No family?"
He shook his head. "I've always liked space."
"Still do?"
He glanced at her. She wasn't smiling. But there was no edge in her voice either.
"Some space," he said. "But I don't mind sharing it."
She rinsed another bowl. "It doesn't feel shared yet."
"I know."
Another pause.
"But I'm trying," she added, more softly.
He didn't say "me too." He just nodded, placed the dried plate in the cupboard, and reached for the next.
Later, she found him in the living room reading.
"Do you mind if I sit?"
He looked up, blinked. "Of course not."
She didn't sit beside him. She chose the armchair across from the couch. But her presence filled the room in a different way that night. She curled her feet under herself, blanket over her lap, hair down.
She didn't speak. Didn't hum. Didn't fidget.
She just sat. Quietly.
And for the first time since the wedding, he didn't feel the need to fill the silence.
When he closed his book, she looked up. Their eyes met. Not just politely — fully.
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
He hesitated. Then, "That this feels… better."
She tilted her head. "Better than what?"
"Than being strangers."
Her gaze softened. For a moment, she looked like she might reply with something tender. Or something revealing. But she didn't.
Instead, she whispered, "Goodnight," and rose to leave the room.
Evan stayed there for a while, eyes on the empty chair.
Later, when he entered the bedroom, the pillow was gone.
He didn't ask why.
And she didn't explain.
But that night, her breathing sounded a little closer.
And when he turned to face her in the dark, he caught the faint scent of her hair on the pillow they now shared.
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time, the cold in the room didn't quite reach his bones.