Celeste doesn’t reply.
That should make me feel victorious. Relieved. Lighter.
It doesn’t.
Instead, there’s this low hum in my chest, like when a room goes quiet after an argument and you know the silence is temporary. Like something is being rearranged behind closed doors.
I try to move on.
I water the plants on the balcony even though the leaves are already glossy and green. I reorganize the spice rack. I make Ethan’s favorite dinner and forget to taste the stew until it’s already on the table.
“Are you okay?” he asks, halfway through the meal.
“Yes,” I say too quickly.
He studies me. “You’ve been distant.”
I shrug. “I’m just tired.”
That’s true. Just not in the way he thinks.
Later that night, when he falls asleep almost immediately, I stay awake. Staring at the ceiling. List
