Amy Miller sat at the edge of the bed, fingers tracing the quilt's pattern as if it could answer the question that had haunted her for months: Does he love me? The morning sun streamed weakly through the curtains, illuminating the empty space beside her where Alexander usually lay.
He hadn't spoken a word since waking, and the silence between them felt heavier than any argument they'd ever had. His presence was imposing yet distant, a wall of calm that neither invited her in nor pushed her away yet somehow made her feel small.
Alexander entered the room at last, his movements deliberate and precise. He dressed in his usual tailored suit, brushing past her without a glance, his tie knot perfect, his shoes gleaming. There was no softness in the way he adjusted his cuffs, no warmth when he crossed the room to grab his briefcase. Amy swallowed the lump in her throat, trying to summon the courage to speak.
"Good morning," she said, her voice barely rising above a whisper.
He paused mid-step but didn't turn toward her. "Morning," he replied, clipped and neutral. Then, without waiting for a response, he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Amy's chest tightened. She wanted to reach out, to touch him, to find some evidence that he cared, but the space he kept between them felt unbridgeable. Nights were the hardest sleeping next to someone who seemed present yet completely untouchable. Sometimes she caught him watching her, and for a fleeting moment, she thought she saw something an emotion, a spark, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.
"Does he even like me?" she whispered to the empty room, her fingers gripping the quilt so tightly her knuckles ached. She had tried to talk to him about it once, but the conversation had ended with him calmly explaining that love wasn't about gestures or words. To him, it was something measured, restrained, controlled. Something he kept to himself.
And yet, Amy couldn't shake the ache in her chest, the desperate longing for a warmth he never offered. She had married him because of his brilliance, his strength, his calm certainty in a world that often felt chaotic. But brilliance without tenderness was a lonely thing, and strength without softness left her hollow.
She rose and moved to the window, looking out over the city that stretched endlessly beneath them. The skyline was beautiful, but even the golden sunrise could not pierce the gray fog that had settled around her heart.
Alexander Miller was a man of precision, of order, of unspoken rules, but in his carefully structured world, there seemed no room for her. And Amy, despite her best efforts, could not find her place in the rigid lines of his life.
A knock at the door startled her. She turned, hoping, almost irrationally that it would be him. But it was only the housekeeper, holding a tray of breakfast. She placed it on the bed with a polite nod, eyes flicking toward Amy, who forced a weak smile.
As the footsteps retreated, Amy returned to the bed, sitting down once more. The quilt no longer offered comfort; it felt like a barrier, a reminder that she was alone in a marriage that promised love but delivered distance.
She closed her eyes, imagining what it might feel like to be held, to be told that she mattered. She imagined Alexander's hand brushing hers, his lips soft against her temple, the warmth of his presence filling the room. But the fantasy faded as quickly as it came, leaving only the cold certainty of reality: he was a man who loved silently, and she was left searching for a love that might never reach her.