Until My Last Breath

The alarm clock buzzed in the corner of the room, its shrill sound bouncing off cream-colored walls that had seen better days. Amara reached over, silencing it with a tired hand. Morning light streamed through the half-closed blinds, painting pale stripes across the bed where Jerome still lay, his face calm, almost boyish in sleep. She watched him for a moment. Six years together, and she still knew the way his breathing shifted when he dreamed, the slight furrow of his brow when the world intruded on his rest. A small smile tugged at her lips. This is home, she thought. This is us. But lately, even “home” had begun to feel… muted. Jerome stirred, opening his eyes slowly. “You’re staring again,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep. “And you’re pretending you don’t like it again,” Amara teased, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. He chuckled softly, pulling himself upright. “Coffee?” “Only if you make it,” she replied, stretching. They moved through the morning with a practiced rhythm—her setting out toast, him filling the kettle. The familiarity was comforting, but Amara couldn’t shake the faint hollowness threading between their words. Jerome had been quieter lately. Not distant exactly, just… subdued, as though something pressed on him that he didn’t want to name. “Big day at work?” she asked, breaking the silence. “Just the usual,” he said, eyes avoiding hers as he stirred sugar into his cup. There it was again—that slight deflection, the heaviness he tried to hide beneath routine. Amara bit back the urge to press further. He’d tell her if something was wrong. He always did. Didn’t he? She tried to smile as he handed her the mug, warm against her palms. Somewhere deep in her chest, a flicker of unease sparked—but she smothered it quickly. For now, she told herself, their love was steady. For now, everything was as it should be. She didn’t know this was the beginning of the unraveling.