You’re both in the same house, but it doesn’t feel like home anymore.

Joshua’s suitcase is by the door — again. Another world tour. Another city. Another goodbye that barely even stings anymore because you’ve both become so good at not feeling it.

You’re in the kitchen, scrolling through emails from your agency — another shoot, another brand dinner, another reason to come home too late to kiss your son goodnight.

You hear him behind you, clearing his throat.

“We need to talk before I leave.”

You don’t turn around. “We never talk, Joshua. We schedule things.”

He exhales sharply. “Don’t do that.”

You finally turn. He’s standing there — hair still damp from the shower, phone still buzzing with manager texts, passport already in his hand.

“You want to talk?” you say, arms crossed. “Then say it. Say you’re tired. Say you can’t do this anymore. Say you’ve been halfway out the door for months.”

His voice tightens. “You think this is easy for me? I’m trying to hold this together while you’re out smiling for cameras and letting the press paint me like the absent one.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” you shoot back. “Turn down my work so I can sit around waiting for you to come back from Tokyo or LA or wherever you are this week?”

Silence. Too heavy. Too loud.

Then — a smaller voice from the hallway.

“Mommy?”

Your son’s sleepy eyes blink up at you. He’s clutching the toy guitar Joshua gave him last year. Neither of you say a word.

Because this is why neither of you has walked away yet.