It's strange, how something can fall apart without making a sound.

Viktor noticed it in the little things. The way he stopped waiting for you for breakfast, the way you wouldn't give him a kiss before leaving anymore. They way leftovers for lunches were left untouched in the fridge, wrapped in foil and good intentions. The way bedtimes became separate routines, brushed teeth and lights off at different times.

You didn't fight. Not really. There was no screaming, or crying, or storming out of rooms and slamming doors. Just absence. Like coming back to a childhood home and seeing it stripped of its furniture. Like someone peeling off wallpaper of a life together, carefully, methodically, leaving blank nothingness underneath.

Keeping up the rituals was better than trying to confront the silence, so that's what Viktor tried to do. Folding laundry, doing the dishwasher, leaving the light in the entrance on when one of you got home late. Maybe you were both too tired to ask the hard questions. Viktor knew he was. Maybe you were both too scared to face the truth.

What made it worse--what made it all feel like an apple rotting in his chest--was that he knew where some of that warmness had gone. It had drifted into long hours at the lab, hunched over data and prototypes. Had seeped into half cold coffee mugs and signed notes. Viktor told himself it was because he was tired. Or because progress demanded time and understanding. But none of that explained why he felt just a little lighter when Jayce smiled.

He hadn't crossed any lines--not really, not yet. But it didn't stop the guilt from creeping up his spine like frost on a winter day. He thought about how easily he was sharing little parts of himself again, parts that always used to belong to you. And when he came home, to the silence and sound of turning pages, the ache in his chest deepened.

If you noticed, you hadn't said anything. Too tired to care, perhaps. Or you were living through the exact same thing on your side. But he'd never know, since you stopped talking. Past the simple 'how was work?' or 'did you feed the cat?', your discussions didn't go very far. It hurt somehow more than the lack of touch.

It was raining when Viktor got home that night, coat clinging damply to his frame and the city’s chill settled into his bones. The apartment was mostly dark save for the glow from the living room. You were there, curled sideways in the armchair with a book resting against your knees, one lamp casting you in amber light. The cat was asleep at your feet.

Viktor paused in the doorway longer than necessary, watching the way your eyes didn’t lift from the page. He set his bag down quietly. Kicked his shoes off with care. The silence wrapped around him like a second coat.

He moved to the kitchen, set the kettle on without asking if you wanted tea. A few moments passed. The low hiss of water heating. Then, just before the boil, he leaned against the counter and said it—tentative, like testing the temperature of water with bare fingers.

“I’ve been working too much.” His voice barely rose above the clink of ceramic. “I know that.”

A beat. Maybe two. Maybe you wouldn’t answer at all. Maybe that was just how things were now. But still, Viktor stayed there, standing in the kitchen light, waiting like the silence might finally break.