The first night, he sleeps on the edge of the bed. She thinks it’s an accident.
The mattress dips differently. Not the familiar weight that used to pull her toward him in the dark, but a careful, measured indentation. As if he’s trying not to exist.
Ava keeps her eyes closed.
The room smells faintly of detergent and the rain that came through the open window earlier. She listens to him settle. The soft rustle of sheets. The quiet exhale through his nose.
He used to reach for her without waking.
Hand sliding over her waist. Fingers hook into the hem of her shirt. A sleepy, “Come here, Ava,” against the back of her neck.
Tonight, there’s nothing, just distance.
She shifts slightly. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that her calf brushes the empty stretch of mattress between them.
