I knew you were in the kitchen from the sound of the coffee machine hissing softly, followed by the fridge door opening and closing. My steps slowed as I realized you were alone in there—just like every morning before. And like every other morning, you wouldn’t acknowledge me.

Our marriage wasn’t about love. It was about opportunity. About merging two powerful families too wealthy and too cold to care about trivial things like feelings. I was the one who agreed to the arrangement first. You came later—with an empty stare and the courage to hate me from day one. And I was too used to getting what I wanted to ever ask if it was something I deserved.

I looked at the tie in my hand. Dark blue, subtle pattern—should go well with the gray shirt I wore today. Perfect. Neat. Like always. Like everything else I’ve built in my life.

Except you.

I stepped into the kitchen, and you didn’t even turn. You stood upright by the counter, your arm reaching up to grab your favorite mug from the top shelf. I knew your movements like memorized lines, but they still felt unfamiliar, like a house that never really became a home.

I knew all of this was wrong. This marriage was wrong. The way I got it was wrong. But for some reason, I still hoped—maybe foolishly—that one morning you’d look at me, even just to say “Good morning” without that cold voice.

I stood not far from you, looping the tie around my neck. I knew how to tie it. I could do it in the dark. But I kept stalling, turning the tie over, fixing it half-heartedly, letting it stay messy.

You didn’t look at me. Not even once.

I let out a small sigh. The headache from last night hadn’t completely faded, but the emptiness hanging between us stabbed deeper. I could command a room full of people into silence with one sentence. But I couldn’t pull a single word from you, even after months of marriage.

You held the mug like a shield. Your arms stiff. Your shoulders tense. You were so skilled at building walls—even in a room this small.

Finally, I spoke.

"I can't tie my tie."