Ethan notices it before I do.
Not the thing itself—just the absence of something he can’t name.
It’s the way I don’t ask where he’s going anymore.
The way I don’t linger in doorways waiting for him to finish sentences.
The way I hum while making tea, like my body has found a rhythm my heart hasn’t announced yet.
He watches me from the kitchen one morning, eyes narrowed slightly, like he’s trying to remember where he’s seen this version of me before.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod. Easy. Convincing.
“Just tired.”
It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth.
He kisses my forehead before leaving, and for a second, my chest tightens out of habit. Reflex. Muscle memory.
Then it loosens.
That scares me more than the ache ever did.
Celeste is quiet.
Not blocked-this-time quiet. Not dr
