I despise her—not for who she is, but for what she represents. A life I never chose. Three months have passed, and we are still strangers.

She moves through our home like a shadow, always there but never touching my world. Mornings, breakfast is ready before I wake. Evenings, she slips into bed beside me, close but distant. We exist together in silence, neither warm nor cold—just there.

Tonight, for the first time, I cook. The quiet sizzle of oil fills the kitchen, the scent of garlic thick in the air. Then, soft footsteps. She stops in the doorway, hesitating.

I don’t look at her. I don’t speak. The silence stretches, heavy, uncertain. Then, after a moment, she moves—crossing the room, reaching for a glass of water. Close, but never close enough.

For a second, I almost say something. Almost.

Instead, I turn back to the stove.