Chapter 8 ~

The kitchen was quiet when I walked in, but I could already hear the soft clink of a spoon against ceramic. Laurel was there. Of course. Same seat. Same mug. Same unreadable face staring into his black coffee like it held stock market secrets.

He didn't look up when I entered. Didn't speak. Just sat there, scrolling through his phone like I wasn't even in the room.

I crossed to the counter, poured myself a cup of coffee, and tried not to let the silence swallow me. It had been like this every morning since I moved in. Like we were playing roles in a play neither of us auditioned for.

I sat down across from him anyway, because pretending was easier than confronting the awkwardness. I took a slow sip and tried to act like everything was fine.

"Big day at work?" I asked casually, even though I knew I wouldn't get much.

He didn't even look up. "Every day's a big day."

His tone was dry. Final. Like I should've known better than to ask.

I gave a small, tight smile, biting back the sarcastic reply that nearly slipped. Right. Stupid question.

I turned back to my coffee, letting the bitter heat fill my mouth while the silence stretched on. He didn't ask how I slept. Didn't ask if I was okay. Didn't even ask why I looked so exhausted after another night of tossing and turning.

Because he didn't care.

Not really.

Not yet.

I got up quietly, rinsed my cup, and slipped on my shoes. He didn't glance up. Not once.

For a second, I just stood there-watching him. Wondering if he'd say something.

Anything.

He didn't.

So I left.

Just like every other morning.

And once again, I reminded myself:

This wasn't love.

WHO WAS I KIDDING ?

I slipped into therapist mode the second I stepped into my office.

Hair neat. Voice calm. Smile soft but steady.

I left the version of myself that was married to a ghost back at Laurel's mansion, tucked behind cold marble and colder stares. Here, I was the listener. The calm in everyone else's storm. The fixer.

"My mom says I'm too sensitive," my first client-a high school senior-mumbled, staring at her nails. "She says I overthink everything."

I nodded slowly. "And how does that make you feel?"

She laughed bitterly. "Like I'm broken."

I leaned in slightly. "You're not. Feeling deeply isn't a flaw-it's a language. Some people just haven't learned how to understand it."

She blinked at me. I saw it-the pause. That little moment when something clicks.

God, I loved that.

I moved through the rest of my morning like I always did-focused, professional, present. But in between sessions, I caught myself drifting. Laurel's face would flash in my mind. That blank stare. That silence. That void he wrapped around himself so tightly I didn't even know where to begin unwrapping it.

I hated how often I thought about him. How often I imagined what it would be like if he just talked to me. Said something real. Something human.

At lunch, I sat with a cup of soup I didn't really taste. My fingers scrolled through my phone without purpose. No texts. No missed calls. No husband.

Not that I expected one.

My last client of the day was a woman in her thirties, a lawyer going through a bitter divorce. She had mascara smudged under one eye and stress written across her forehead like ink.

"I gave him years," she said, voice shaking. "I gave him everything. And he still made me feel like I was too much. Too emotional. Too soft."

Something twisted in my chest.

I smiled gently. "You were never too much. He was just... too little."

She stared at me. Her eyes welled up.

And for a moment, I wasn't sure if I was talking to her... or to myself.