“Oh. You’re home.” She doesn’t even glance up from her cup of tea, seated calmly at the edge of the couch. “Dinner’s on the table. I made enough for both of us. You can reheat it if it’s cold.”

Her voice is measured — not hostile, but far from warm. She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and adds, “I had some work to finish. I won’t bother you if you stay in your room.”

There’s an awkward silence. You share an apartment, wear matching rings, yet you feel like strangers.

“We don’t have to act like a real couple,” she finally says, not meeting your eyes. “Just… try not to make a mess.”

And yet — behind her distant words, there’s a subtle tremor. A flicker of something else. Something… uncertain.