CONTRACT MARRIAGE (living together) Scene two
1053 Words
The apartment was already prepared when she arrived.
That, somehow, unsettled her more than if it hadn’t been.
The building stood quiet and tall, glass reflecting a sky that hadn’t decided what mood it was in yet. He was waiting by the entrance, hands in his coat pockets, posture relaxed in the way of someone who belonged everywhere they stood.
“You didn’t have to come,” she said, stepping out of the car.
“I know.”
Yet he hadn’t moved away.
Inside, the elevator ride passed without conversation. The numbers climbed steadily. She watched them change, one floor at a time, grounding herself in something predictable.
When the doors opened, the apartment greeted them with silence.
It was spacious without being excessive. Clean lines. Neutral colors. Nothing personal on the walls. No photographs. No unnecessary warmth.
Her shoes made the softest sound against the floor as she stepped in.
“You can choose a room,” he said, setting his keys down on the console. “The one at the end gets better light.”
She nodded, slipping her coat off slowly. She didn’t ask where he slept. She assumed the opposite end of the hallway. Distance, already measured.
She walked through the apartment first, not like someone exploring, but like someone taking inventory.
The kitchen was stocked. Carefully. Not generously.
Tea bags in a glass jar. Coffee beans in a sealed container. Two mugs on the rack. Identical.
She picked one up, turning it over in her hands.
“You don’t drink tea,” she said.
“No.”
“Then why—”
“In case you do.”
She placed the mug back without comment.
In the living room, there was a couch that looked like it had never been argued on. A lamp positioned for reading. Curtains half-open, letting in a calm, even light.
She set her suitcase near the wall.
“This feels temporary,” she said.
“That’s intentional.”
She glanced at him, then away.
Down the hallway, she chose the room with the window he’d mentioned. The sunlight was soft there, spilling across the floor in a way that made the space feel quieter than the rest of the apartment.
She opened the closet. Empty.
Good.
She knelt to unzip her suitcase, pulling out folded clothes, placing them carefully into the drawers. He didn’t hover. He didn’t comment. He leaned against the doorframe briefly, then left her alone.
That mattered more than she expected.
Later, she emerged to find him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, rinsing a mug. He moved efficiently, like he’d lived alone for a long time.
“There’s a schedule,” he said, drying his hands. “For public appearances. It’s on the counter.”
She scanned the paper without picking it up.
“And meals?” she asked.
“We don’t have to eat together.”
“But?”
“But it might look strange if we never do.”
She considered that.
“Once or twice a week,” she said. “Dinner.”
“Agreed.”
They stood there, the agreement settling quietly between them.
She reached for the kettle. Filled it. Set it on the stove. The small domestic action felt strange—too intimate for people who weren’t meant to be anything.
He noticed. Said nothing.
When the water began to heat, she leaned back against the counter.
“What about nights?” she asked.
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand.
“Our rooms are separate,” he said. “No exceptions.”
“Even if—”
“Especially if.”
She nodded.
The kettle clicked off. She poured the water slowly, careful not to spill.
“Do you ever break rules?” she asked, not looking at him.
A pause.
“Only when they stop making sense.”
She took that in, stirring her tea.
The rest of the evening unfolded quietly.
She unpacked. He answered emails. At one point, she walked into the living room and found a blanket folded neatly on the arm of the couch—placed there sometime between her last glance and now.
She didn’t ask about it.
Later, as the sky darkened, they stood in the hallway again, facing opposite directions.
“Good night,” she said.
“Good night.”
She closed her door gently.
Inside her room, she leaned against it for a moment longer than necessary. The apartment hummed softly around her—plumbing, distant traffic, the quiet presence of another person existing just a few walls away.
This wasn’t loneliness.
It wasn’t companionship either.
It was something in between.
Across the hall, he stood in his own room, loosening his watch, listening to the faint sound of her footsteps moving away from the door.
He hadn’t expected to notice that.
He hadn’t expected to remember the way she’d folded her coat over the chair instead of hanging it up. Or the way she’d aligned her shoes neatly by the door.
Small things. Unimportant things.
He turned off the light.
Much later, when the apartment had fully settled into sleep, she opened her door quietly and stepped into the hallway.
She wasn’t restless. She wasn’t anxious.
She just needed water.
In the kitchen, she filled a glass, taking a small sip.
She froze when she noticed the light on in the living room.
He was there, seated on the couch, reading. Glasses perched low on his nose. The blanket now draped over his shoulders.
He looked up.
They stared at each other for a brief second—two people caught in an unscripted moment.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Me neither.”
She didn’t sit. He didn’t invite her to.
After a moment, she turned back toward the hallway.
As she reached her door, she spoke without looking at him.
“This is going to be harder than it looks.”
He closed his book slowly.
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
She went inside, closing the door behind her.
He remained on the couch, staring at the space she’d just left, realizing that moving in together had already done one thing the contract hadn’t prepared them for—
It had made their silence shared.
And neither of them knew what to do with that.
- Writer
