The faint clink of a plate snapped me back.

I hadn't realized I'd been staring at the sink for minutes, hands still under the running water. The sound of ceramic against metal was enough to pull me out of whatever corner of my head I'd wandered into.

I shut the tap off and exhaled.

The house felt too still. Too quiet.

I dried my hands with the towel by the counter, set it back neatly, and leaned there for a while. The dishes were supposed to take my mind off things, but all they really did was give me more time to think.

About the conversation with Trent. About the silence that waited upstairs. About everything I still hadn't said.

I sighed and grabbed the last glass, rinsing it slowly. The faint hum of the dishwasher filled the background, steady, unbothered.

When I was done, I turned off the lights downstairs and started up the stairs — slow steps, one at a time.

Halfway up, I glanced toward her office. The light under the door was still on. She was still working. Of course she was.

I stopped in front of the door. My hand hovered over the handle for a second before dropping back to my side. I could almost picture her inside — head tilted slightly, tapping something on her laptop, completely focused.

For a moment, I thought about knocking. Maybe just to say goodnight. Maybe to remind myself we still talked.

But I didn't.

I stood there, long enough for it to feel stupid, then turned away and headed to our room instead.

The lamp was off. The sheets smelled faintly like her perfume — that clean, soft scent that used to mean comfort but now just reminded me how distant things had become.

Didn't take long before everything blurred together.

Maybe it was the drinks with Trent. Maybe I was just too tired to keep replaying everything in my head.

Either way, sleep came quick.

She came in late that night, a little over an hour after I fell asleep. The door clicked softly behind her, the kind of sound that didn't try to wake anyone.

Val didn't turn on the lights. Just the glow from her phone screen followed her across the room. She scrolled for a while, sitting on her side of the bed, her face faintly lit, eyes distant in that way they sometimes were when she was thinking too much. After a few minutes, she set the phone down, sighed quietly, and slipped under the sheets.

I didn't move. Didn't know any of it was happening. She stayed far enough not to wake me, her back turned, one arm tucked close like she was holding herself together.

And that was it — the night passed like that. Two people sharing the same bed but not the same peace.

Morning came fast.

She was the first to wake, as always. For a moment, she just lay there, still and quiet, watching the ceiling. Then she turned, slowly, until she was facing me.

Her eyes softened. She studied me like she was trying to memorize every detail — the way my hair fell, the line of my jaw, the faint crease between my brows. Then she reached out a hand, fingers hovering inches from my cheek, close enough for me to feel it if I'd been awake.

She pauses there, suspended between wanting and restraint — a breath away from touching — her hand trembling slightly before she drew it back.

I shifted a little in my sleep, and she froze.

Her eyes shut instantly, like she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't.

A second passed. Nothing.

She peeked again, careful, and when she saw I was still asleep, she exhaled quietly — that small, sad kind of breath that comes when relief and regret blur together.

Then she reached for her phone, sat up, and slipped out of bed.

If I'd been awake, maybe I would've seen all of that — the way she still looked at me, the hesitation, the care that hadn't gone anywhere even if everything else had.

But I wasn't.

And by the time I opened my eyes, her side of the bed was already cold.

---

By the time I got out of the shower, the house already smelled like coffee and toasted bread.

Saturday mornings used to mean slow starts — her humming softly from the kitchen, me pretending to read the something while she complained about how I always folded the napkins wrong.

Now it just felt like moving through a memory I didn't belong in anymore.

I took the stairs down one step at a time, sleeves rolled up and hair still damp. The morning light cut through the curtains, painting the dining room in that soft, golden hue I always liked. Aline was just finishing up, setting the last plate on the table. She greeted me with her usual polite smile, then disappeared toward the kitchen.

Val was already there, laptop closed but her phone pressed to her ear, her expression somewhere between focused and tired. Her hair was loose, falling past her shoulders in a way that made her look like the girl who always wore my hoodie.

She glanced up briefly when she saw me, then mouthed, one second, before turning back to her call.

I sat down. The chair creaked louder than it should have.

"Right, I'll review it and send you my notes," she was saying.

A small pause. "Yes, I understand. No, that's fine."

Another pause. "Alright. Thank you."

She ended the call, placed the phone face-up beside her plate, and drew in a small breath, like she was bracing herself for something.

Some things never changed. Even with everything sitting between us now, she still left her phone face-up — open, visible, as if to say there's nothing to hide.

The silence stretched thin between us, broken only by the faint clink of cutlery. I hated it — the quiet. Saturdays used to be filled with noise, laughter, inside jokes that never really made sense to anyone but us. Now it just felt… heavy.

I cleared my throat, searching for something, anything to say. "Who was that?" I asked finally. My voice came out calm — maybe too calm.

She looked at me. "Work stuff."

"Work stuff?" I echoed, not accusing — just repeating, the words tasting faintly strange.

She nodded once, reached for her coffee, and took a sip.

There was a time she would've told me everything — not just the work calls, but the random things too. The texts from her assistant about scheduling conflicts, the funny typo in a client's report, the new policy she thought was ridiculous. Even the things that had nothing to do with me somehow always made their way into our conversations.

Now it was just... work stuff.

I let out a quiet breath and shook my head — not in anger, just a small, tired gesture. Then I picked up my fork and poked absently at my eggs.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her glance at me, hesitant.

When she finally spoke, it was almost a mumble, barely loud enough to hear.

"I would've told you," she said, "but it's not like you trust me anymore."

The fork paused halfway to my mouth. I looked up at her, searching her face.

"You know I trust you," I said.

Her eyes lifted to meet mine — calm, but distant.

"Oh really?" she said quietly. "I had no idea."

Something in her tone — not sharp, not sarcastic exactly, just… tired — cut deeper than if she'd yelled.

I sighed. "Can we not do this right now?"

She stared at her plate for a second, then murmured, "Of course."

The word sounded too simple, too polite to mean what it was supposed to.

My brow furrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She looked up again. "Nothing. Just… of course."

"Val—"

"I said it's fine, Kai."

It wasn't fine. The way she said my name made that clear.

The silence stretched out between us, filled with the faint clinking of cutlery and the low hum of the refrigerator.

I forced a small laugh, the kind meant to ease the air. "You know, we used to spend Saturdays trying to decide what movie to watch first, not what to argue about."

Her lips twitched, just slightly, like she wanted to smile but couldn't quite manage it.

"Yeah," she said softly. "We used to do a lot of things."

That one landed harder than I expected.

I looked down, set my fork aside, and rubbed a hand over my face. "You're not even trying to talk to me anymore, Val."

She met my eyes then, and there it was. That quiet hurt she tried so hard to hide.

"I am talking," she said. "You're just not hearing me."

"I'm trying," I said, maybe too quickly. "I'm trying to—"

"To what?" she asked gently. "To pretend everything's okay until it actually is?"

The words weren't cruel. They were soft, steady, like she'd been rehearsing them in her head and hated that she had to say them out loud.

I swallowed. "That's not what I meant."

She sighed, the sound small but tired. "I know."

"I should get ready," she said after a moment. "There's that client event this afternoon."

Her tone was light — casual — but there was a small pause after, like she was waiting for something. I didn't say anything.

A second later, she added quietly, "I'll... eat later."

She stood, smoothed the front of her dress, and reached for her phone. The faint clack of her heels echoed as she walked away.

I watched her go but didn't move. The sound faded up the stairs until there was only the quiet again — the same quiet that had started to feel like the new normal.

The clock ticked somewhere in the kitchen. The kind of sound that used to fade into the background but now just reminded me how long silence could stretch when two people ran out of words.

I leaned back in my chair, looking at the empty space across from me, and thought about how fragile something becomes right before it breaks.

Maybe this was what that looked like.

---

To be continued...

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