Isabelle hadn’t expected quiet to feel so loud.
It echoed in the smallest places—between the clink of her mug on the kitchen counter, in the hush after the kids’ laughter died down, in the hollow space of her bed where he used to sleep when they were still pretending not to fall in love again.
It lingered in Sebastian’s absence—and in the presence he no longer pushed toward her.
He was still here, of course. Still Sebastian. Still the father of her children. Still the partner who remembered to refill her favorite tea, who kept a spare charger in his car for when she forgot hers, who read the twins bedtime stories in different voices just to make them laugh.
But not once in the last four days had he touched her.
Not her hand. Not her shoulder. Not even the accidental brush of fingertip
