Chapter 2: Cold Walls, Colder Words
747 Words
The first morning of married life didn’t begin with breakfast in bed or soft kisses beneath tangled sheets. There was no warm sunlight slipping through curtains to illuminate two bodies wrapped in love. There wasn’t even a “good morning.”
There was only the sound of the guest room door closing softly behind Nathan and the kettle hissing on the stove.
Claire sat at the dining table in her pale blue robe, hands wrapped around a lukewarm mug of coffee. She had made enough for two. But the second cup remained untouched, its steam fading slowly like her expectations.
She heard his footsteps behind her, but he didn’t speak. Just walked past, stiff and silent, and opened the fridge.
“Good morning,” she said gently, unsure whether her voice would tremble. It didn’t—but it felt like a thread pulled too tight.
He didn’t look at her. “Morning.”
No smile. No pause.
Just that one, clipped word. Then the scrape of a chair as he sat at the far end of the table, scrolling through his phone. His wedding band glinted on his finger like a stranger’s.
Claire bit the inside of her cheek. “I thought maybe… we could go out later? Just to the park, or—”
“I have meetings.” He didn’t even glance up. “This week’s packed.”
“Of course,” she said quickly, masking the disappointment like a reflex. She wanted to say It’s our first day as husband and wife, but even the word wife felt foreign on her tongue. A title that had arrived too soon, with no love to anchor it.
She turned away, pretending to sip her coffee. She didn’t want him to see her lip tremble.
—
The days blurred into each other like rain on glass. Nathan left early, came home late, and barely acknowledged her. She tried. God, she tried. She left notes on the fridge: Good luck today! or Dinner’s in the oven 💛. He never replied. Never mentioned them.
She’d wait by the window every evening, watching headlights pass by, her heart stupidly hoping he might come home and say, I missed you.
Instead, she heard the door open, the rustle of his coat, the sound of the guest bedroom door closing behind him. Every single night.
He never once slept beside her.
Claire stopped setting the table for two by the third week.
—
One evening, after a particularly long day working remotely on a freelance editing job, she made chicken parmesan—Nathan’s favorite, according to his mother.
She set it out neatly. Lit a small candle. Wore her hair down, the way her mother always said brought out her cheekbones. She tried to feel like a wife.
He arrived home at 9:40 p.m., phone to his ear, brows drawn together.
“Hey—um—dinner’s ready,” Claire offered, standing up with hopeful eyes.
Nathan paused mid-call. Glanced at the table.
Then said into the phone, “I’ll call you back.”
Claire’s smile faltered.
He walked over slowly, looked at the meal, then at her.
“What’s all this for?” he asked flatly.
“I… just wanted to cook for you. I thought we could eat together tonight.”
A pause.
“Claire,” he said slowly, like he was correcting a child, “you don’t have to pretend. We both know this isn’t what either of us wanted.”
Her heart sank. “I didn’t pretend.”
His jaw tightened. “I didn’t ask for this. Our parents may have arranged this circus, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to start playing house just to make you feel better.”
She stared at him, all color draining from her face.
The silence was suffocating.
“I’m not asking for love,” she whispered. “Just… a little kindness.”
His eyes hardened. “Don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”
He turned and walked away.
The candle flickered for a moment longer before she blew it out.
Claire sat at the table long after the food had gone cold, her fork untouched.
She didn’t cry right then.
She waited until she was in the shower, the water running loud enough to muffle her sobs. She leaned against the tile wall, trembling, arms wrapped around her chest like she was holding herself together.
Because someone had to.
And it clearly wasn’t going to be him.
- Writer
