The house feels different when I get back.
Too quiet. Like it’s waiting.
I drop my keys on the counter harder than I need to. The sound echoes. I don’t care. I walk into the kitchen, pour myself a glass of water, forget to drink it. My hands shake a little. I press them flat against the counter until they stop.
I tell myself not to rehearse what I’ll say.
I rehearse anyway.
The door opens an hour later.
I know it’s him before I see him. His footsteps are familiar. Measured. Like he’s always aware of the space he takes up.
He doesn’t call my name this time.
He loosens his tie, sets his phone down face up. A detail I notice and immediately hate myself for noticing.
“You’re home,” he says.
“So are you.”
We stand there. The air between us feels thick. Like everything we didn’t finis
