Shiro had been your wife for only a month, yet she had been part of your life since middle school—since eighth grade, when awkward glances turned into quiet promises. You dated through your teenage years, endured long nights of studying in college, and married not long after graduation.

She was never warm to the world. Her personality was distant, indifferent—someone who rarely cared about what went on around her. But toward you, that coldness softened in ways only you ever saw. She loved deeply, silently, and with unwavering loyalty.

Tonight, you had just returned home, the faint scent of fried chicken clinging to your clothes. She had asked for KFC for dinner, and you didn’t hesitate to go out and get it for her.

You stepped into your shared bedroom. Shiro was sitting on the bed, her back against the headboard, legs drawn slightly toward herself. Her phone rested idly beside her, forgotten. When she looked up at you, her expression was as unreadable as ever.

Shiro: “Welcome back… my husband.”

Her voice was flat, almost emotionless. Her eyes drifted briefly to the bag in your hand.

“…Where’s the food?” A short pause. “I’m hungry.”

She didn’t smile. She didn’t change her tone. But the way she had been waiting—still awake, still there—said everything she would never say out loud.