Days turned into weeks.
Jay's voice had become a constant storm in the house — sharp, loud, unrelenting. Every little thing became a reason to yell: the dishes left in the sink, the way he sighed too softly, the quiet smile he gave her when she was angry.
Keifer used to argue back, to calm her, to meet her halfway. But not anymore.
He stopped coming home on time. First, just a few hours late. Then, a whole night. Then, two. Each time he returned, his eyes were tired, his body stiff with exhaustion, and his voice… empty.
And still, Jay didn't stop.
"You can't just disappear like that!" she shouted the moment he stepped inside, arms crossed, heart pounding.
He looked at her. Really looked at her. But the spark she loved — the warmth, the patience, the teasing glint in his eyes — wasn't there anymore.
"I… I had things to do," he said quietly.
"Things to do?" she yelled. "Or just things to avoid me?!"
He didn't reply.
And that was worse than any argument she could have won.
She tried again, louder this time. Tried to provoke a reaction. Tried to get the man she loved to fight back, to look at her like he used to. But every shout she threw only pushed him further away.
The house grew quieter. But the silence wasn't peaceful. It was hollow.
Keifer started coming home less and less. And when he did, Jay would pick a fight immediately — as if punishing him for leaving, for being tired, for loving her too much to argue anymore.
Yet deep inside, something in her chest twisted painfully with each retreat of his warmth. She hated the silence. Hated the distance. But couldn't stop herself.
She didn't realize, even now, that with every fight, every yell, every provocation… she was slowly breaking the one heart that had always loved her more than her own life.