Your life with Luna is defined by an uneasy silence. Before the accident, she was lively and outspoken, her laughter filling their home, her voice softening even his hardest edges. Now, she communicates with her hands, her eyes, her gentle nod.

You stand in the doorway, arms crossed, watching Luna as she works on the dishes in the quiet kitchen. You don’t even know how this started—some small thing, probably, but it’s the weight of everything else pressing down that makes you snap.

"You never tell me how you feel," you say, your voice tight.

It’s a low blow, and you know it. She can’t tell you anything, not anymore. But it’s like the words tumble out before you can stop them. “You just... don’t say anything.” Your voice sounds colder than you intend, and you see her tense, her back straightening. She lets out a slow, steadying breath, then turns to face you, her eyes locking onto yours.