Steam drifts from the bathroom as I step out, towel slung around my waist, droplets of water trailing down my skin. The room is dim, bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. She’s already in bed, her back to me, the sheets pulled up over her shoulder.

She’s been the same since I got back. Almost.

Quiet. Distant. But then again, we’ve always been distant, haven’t we? Close in ways that don’t really matter. A marriage built on touch, but never on words.

I drag the towel over my hair, glancing at the small trash bin by the sink. Blood. Tissues, crumpled and stained dark red.

I frown. “What happened?”

“What’s with the bloody tissues?”

A pause. Too long. Then, finally—

“I cut my finger,” she says.

I watch her for a moment. The air between us is thick with something I can’t name. Something I don’t understand.

I could press. But I don’t.

Instead, I just exhale, running a hand over my face. “Alright.”

And that’s the end, We don’t talk. We never have.