The sound of vegetables being chopped filled the kitchen.
Leah moved mechanically, preparing dinner far earlier than usual. The clock barely showed five-thirty, but she didn't know what else to do. Her hands needed something to work on, something to keep them from trembling under the weight of uncertainty.
She hadn't expected Daniel to be home so soon.
She glanced toward the hallway, hearing the front door close gently behind him. No footsteps followed. No familiar question of "Need any help?" No casual hug from behind as she cooked.
Just silence.
Moments later, she heard him enter the living room, keys softly placed in the bowl. She turned slightly, drying her hands, and called out:
"Where'd you go?"
"Out," Daniel said, his voice calm. Detached. "Just had a few things to take care of."
"Oh."
She waited for more—an explanation, a question, anything—but none came.
---
Dinner was nearly ready when she realized something else.
The laundry was untouched.
The table hadn't been wiped. Dishes from the morning still sat in the sink. Daniel always handled those things before she got home. But today, he hadn't.
And somehow, that shift—small as it was—unsettled her more than she expected.
He wasn't angry. He hadn't said a single unkind word.
But that silence… it was louder than yelling.
---
The apartment they lived in had always felt cozy to her. Warm colors. Sunlight in the morning. Enough space for two people who loved each other. They had chosen it together, during their second year of marriage. A temporary home, they called it.
They had saved a fair amount since then—carefully planned, slowly built—for the future. A real home. A place of their own. Maybe a small garden. Maybe a dog. Maybe…
She stirred the curry harder.
What future?
It all felt like a cruel joke now.
---
Dinner was quiet.
They sat at opposite ends of the table. A few passing words about salt and spice, but nothing more.
It was like they were strangers sitting in a house that only used to be a home.
And yet, Leah watched him.
His tired eyes. The way he ate without looking up. How he barely touched his rice.
And suddenly, the ache in her chest returned.
He's hurt. Really hurt. And he hasn't even said anything.
That's what scared her the most. The stillness of it.
---
That night, as she folded clothes in the bedroom, she hesitated. Looked at him as he sat by the window, scrolling through his phone.
"I'm sorry again," she said gently. "About last night. I should've… texted. It's just… work has been overwhelming lately. I didn't want to burden you with it."
Daniel didn't look up.
"I understand," he said quietly.
That was it.
No accusations. No questions. No pressing for more.
Just those two words. Cold. Finished.
Leah looked down at the shirt in her hands and clenched the fabric. The apology had meant to fix something, ease something. But it didn't. His indifference felt worse than anger.
And yet, she couldn't blame him.
The guilt gnawed at her again, sharper now.
The distance between them was no longer just emotional. It was physical. Palpable. Like something had broken—and he no longer had any interest in picking up the pieces.
She looked at him once more.
How had she not seen it all this time? The effort he had put in. The love he gave so freely. The quiet care, the endless patience. And how had she so easily turned her back on it… for what?
Chris.
His name flashed through her mind like a neon sign.
The thrill had been real. The stolen touches. The secrecy. It had made her feel desired, powerful, alive. But now—sitting in the shadow of what she had with Daniel—it felt hollow.
Wrong.
She should end it. She knew that.
But part of her still clung to that electric rush. That freedom. That escape from the routine.
She felt like she was being split in two.
Should I make more time for home? Should I cut Chris off completely?
What if it's already too late?
The thoughts overwhelmed her. And the silence of the room didn't help.
---
Later that night, Leah lay beside Daniel.
His back was to her.
She looked at him in the dim light and reached out slightly, fingers almost touching his shoulder—but she stopped.
She didn't know what she would say. Or what he would say in return.
Exhausted—by the housework, the job, and the guilt twisting through her mind—she sank back onto her pillow.
Sleep pulled at her.
But it was not peace she felt.
Only confusion.
And a growing, haunting sense of loss.