Chapter 8 008. Returning to Normal

The sun peeked through the bedroom curtains, warm and soft against the sheets. I sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes, and glanced at the empty side of the bed. Harryson was already up. Again.

For weeks now, I'd been waking up to cold sheets where he used to be. The Harryson I knew used to stay in bed a few more minutes, kiss my forehead, and tell me dumb jokes to start the day. Now, he was always one step ahead of me, like he didn't want to share those little moments anymore.

I climbed out of bed and pulled my robe around me. As I walked toward the kitchen, the smell of toast filled the air. It used to be coffee. He knew how I liked it-hazelnut creamer, one sugar, and always in the blue mug with the chipped rim. That mug was sitting untouched in the cabinet today.

"Morning," he said without turning. He was standing by the window, dressed in a clean shirt and slacks, sipping black coffee from a plain white cup. I stopped at the doorway, watching him.

"You're dressed up," I said.

He finally looked at me, nodding. "I'm going back to the office."

My stomach tightened. "Already?"

"It's been long enough, Leona." He turned away from the window and walked past me to grab his blazer from the hook. "The agency can't run itself. Cases are piling up. Clients are starting to worry."

I didn't know what to say. I mean, I got it. Harryson's agency was his pride. He'd built it from nothing. But something about him-this new version of him-made me feel like he wasn't ready.

"Are you sure?" I asked, biting the inside of my cheek.

He paused near the door. "I need this, Leona. I need to get back to who I was."

Who I was.

Those words echoed in my chest as he left. I stood there for a long moment, staring at the door, then finally moved to the table. I poured myself a cup of coffee-without hazelnut creamer, because we were out-and tried to pretend everything was okay.

But it wasn't.

---

I sat in front of my laptop, trying to focus on my freelance article about sleep habits. I'd read the same sentence five times and still had no clue what it said.

Writing used to come easy. My little home office had always been my safe place, the place where I created, imagined, and felt useful. But today, it felt different. Cold. Empty.

Just like everything else lately.

Harryson had been gone for hours. Normally, I'd call him around lunchtime to check in. But today, I didn't. I wanted to give him space. That's what everyone kept saying I should do-give him time, give him room, let him heal.

But how much space before the distance becomes permanent?

I pushed my chair back and stood, pacing to the window. Across the street, Mrs. Deeks was trimming her roses again, humming to herself. The world moved on like nothing happened.

Maybe I was the only one stuck in pause.

I glanced at the clock. 2:17 PM.

Sighing, I grabbed my phone and called him.

"Hey," he answered on the third ring.

"Hi," I said, trying to sound casual. "Just checking in. How's the office?"

"Busy," he replied. "The team's been holding up well. I'm going through files now. Nothing too stressful."

"That's good," I said, but something about the way he spoke-it was too smooth. Too measured. Like he was reading a script.

"Anyway, I'll be home around six," he added. "I'll pick up dinner."

I hesitated. "Okay. Drive safe."

He hung up without saying "I love you." He always used to say that, even when he was mad at me.

I stared at the phone for a while after the call ended, then slowly set it down. Maybe I was overthinking. Maybe it was just the trauma.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

---

By the time six o'clock rolled around, he walked through the door with Thai food in his hands. Pad Thai, chicken satay, and those spring rolls I always liked.

We sat on the couch, eating in front of the TV. Some crime show was playing. Harryson barely watched it. He seemed lost in his own head. I watched him more than I watched the screen.

He moved like Harryson. Ate like him. Smiled in the same crooked way.

But it didn't feel like him.

"Do you remember that time we ordered Thai and it was so spicy you started crying?" I said suddenly, hoping to draw him out.

He chuckled, just a little. "Yeah. I think you were the one crying."

"No way," I laughed. "I handled it like a champ. You were the one downing a gallon of milk."

He smiled but it didn't reach his eyes. "Maybe."

We fell into silence again.

After dinner, he went straight to his study. I watched him walk away, noticing how he didn't even glance back. That small gesture he used to do-turning and smiling at me, or touching my shoulder before he left the room-was gone.

I sat on the couch, hugging my knees, staring at the closed door.

Was this just part of recovery? Or was I watching my husband slowly vanish?

---

Later that night, I climbed into bed before him. I lay there, pretending to scroll on my phone while listening for his footsteps. Around midnight, the door creaked open, and he entered quietly.

He sat on the edge of the bed, removing his socks one by one. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He seemed... too careful. Too exact in every movement.

He crawled into bed, staying on his side. No arm around me. No goodnight kiss.

I turned to face him.

"How was it, being back?" I asked softly.

He opened his eyes, looking at the ceiling. "It was fine."

"Did it feel like before?"

He hesitated. "No. But maybe that's just how it has to be now."

I swallowed hard. "Do you still feel like yourself, Harry?"

He finally turned to look at me. "Do you think I'm not me?"

The question hit harder than I expected. I opened my mouth to answer but couldn't find the words. I didn't want to hurt him. I didn't want to admit that yes, I sometimes felt like I was lying beside a stranger.

"I don't know," I said honestly.

He nodded once and closed his eyes.

I lay there, wide awake, listening to his breathing until it slowed into sleep. Even then, I didn't move. I just stared at the man beside me and wondered-when did things become so quiet?

---

The next morning, we woke up and went through the motions again-coffee, quiet conversations, fake smiles. He left for work with a kiss on my cheek, but it felt like a formality, not affection.

I returned to my laptop, trying to finish an article I started days ago. Words came slowly. My mind kept drifting back to the way he looked last night. Distant. Cold.

Empty.

I opened a new document. I didn't plan to. My fingers just moved. And without thinking, I typed:

"What happens when the person you love comes home... but they feel like a stranger?"

The cursor blinked at me, like it was asking the same question I'd been asking myself for weeks.

I didn't have an answer.

Not yet.

But I had a feeling I'd find it-one way or another.