Chapter 2

Chloe didn't come home that night. Or the next. I expected a storm of angry texts, of pleading phone calls. There was nothing. The silence was strange. It gave me space to breathe.

For the first time in years, I woke up and didn't immediately check my phone for a message from her. I didn't make coffee the way she liked it, with a specific amount of sugar she never acknowledged. I just made a cup for myself and sat in the quiet living room. The silence wasn't empty anymore; it was peaceful. I was reclaiming my own space, my own morning routine.

On the third day, she came back. I heard her key in the lock, the sharp, impatient sound of the door swinging open. She strode into the living room, her face a mask of fury.

"Where have you been?" she demanded, as if I were the one who had disappeared.

"Here," I said calmly, not looking up from my laptop. I was tracking the sales of my game. They were surprisingly good.

"You didn't call. You didn't text. I was worried sick," she said.

I finally looked at her. "Were you? Or were you just angry that I wasn't chasing after you?"

Her eyes narrowed. She saw the empty coffee pot on the counter. A small, petty detail, but it was a break in a long-established pattern.

With a sudden, sharp movement, she swept the empty pot off the counter. It shattered on the floor, brown dregs spattering against the white cabinets.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Ethan?" she yelled. "You're acting like a child!"

I stared at the broken ceramic. I didn't flinch. I didn't raise my voice. I felt a strange sense of detachment, as if watching a scene from a movie.

"I'm acting like a child?" I asked, my voice even. "You're the one throwing things because you didn't get your morning coffee."

"I'm throwing things because my husband is suddenly treating me like a stranger!"

"You missed my launch, Chloe," I said, stating the fact plainly. "The most important night of my professional life. You chose to be with Liam. You came home and called my life's work a 'little game.' You're the one who treated me like a stranger first."

She scoffed, crossing her arms. "Oh, here we go again. The poor, neglected artist. You know that dinner was for our future!"

"No," I said, standing up. "That dinner was for your future. I'm not part of your business plan anymore."

She waved a dismissive hand. "Fine, whatever. I'm exhausted. I have a presentation at ten. Make me breakfast."

The sheer audacity of it almost made me laugh. She destroyed a piece of our kitchen, screamed at me, and then demanded I cook for her.

"No," I said.

Her jaw dropped. "What did you say?"

"I said no. There's cereal in the cabinet. There's milk in the fridge. You can make it yourself."

She stared at me, her expression a mixture of disbelief and rage. "I can't believe you. After everything I do for us."

"What you do, you do for yourself," I said, my voice turning cold. I remembered all the times I'd come home from my miserable job, exhausted, only to cook a full meal for her that she'd pick at while answering emails on her phone. I remembered my own birthday last year, when I' d waited with a reservation at our favorite restaurant, only for her to text me at nine P.M. saying she was stuck in a "work emergency" with Liam. I later saw pictures of them on social media, laughing over drinks at a different, trendier bar.

That was the night the hope started to run out.

"You're being ridiculous," she said, her voice shaking with anger.

I was tired of her questions, tired of her self-centered worldview. The love I once felt had been eroded by a thousand small cuts, a thousand moments of neglect. Now, there was nothing left but scar tissue.

"I'm being done," I said.

Unable to get what she wanted, she let out a frustrated scream. She grabbed her purse from the floor, her movements jerky and angry.

"Fine! I'll get something on the way!" she yelled, and slammed the door behind her, leaving me alone with the shattered coffee pot and the sweet, sweet silence.