The strange thing is how normal everything still looks.
Like the world didn’t pause when something inside me quietly stepped back.
Ethan still drinks his coffee black. Still leaves his mug by the sink like the dishwasher is a suggestion, not a rule. Still kisses me goodbye every morning, warm and familiar, like a habit he hasn’t questioned yet.
And I still let him.
That part confuses me more than anything.
I let him touch me not because it feels right, but because it feels known. Because there’s comfort in repetition, even when it’s hollow. Especially when it’s hollow.
He notices the pause now. The half-second where I hesitate before leaning in. The way my body needs convincing.
“You okay?” he asks one evening, stopping me in the hallway. His hand closes around my wrist. Not tight.
