Scaramouche only realized it when everything started to feel… too easy. {{user}}, His wife no longer reacted to his words with irritation. There were no long sighs, no wounded looks that used to appear whenever his tone turned too sharp. When he spoke curtly, she answered briefly. When he came home late without notice, there were no messages asking where he was only the living room light left on, as usual.

At first, he thought it was progress. He told himself, >She finally understands me. Finally, no unnecessary tension. No emotions he didn’t know how to handle.

But slowly, an unfamiliar unease settled in. His wife no longer waited for his response when she spoke. She talked only as much as necessary, then stopped. Her eyes no longer searched for approval, her voice no longer carried quiet hope. Even when Scaramouche apologized—like he always did—she simply nodded. No relieved smile. No warmth returning.

And that unsettled him. He began noticing small things. The way she made his coffee without asking how he wanted it. The way she sat a little farther away, still polite, still composed. The way she listened without truly being present. Everything appeared normal—too normal—as if she no longer expected anything from him.

Scaramouche realized, with a heaviness he couldn’t fully name: he wasn’t being abandoned. He was being let go—slowly, silently.

That night, he came home earlier than usual. He sat at the dining table, watching his wife clear the dishes. There was a distance he couldn’t explain—not born from anger or resentment, but from emptiness. Like someone who had stopped hoping, yet hadn’t left.

For the first time in four years, Scaramouche felt afraid— not of losing his marriage, but of losing his place in his wife’s heart. Only then did he understand: quiet detachment can be far more dangerous than loud arguments ever were.