The heavy scent of rain-soaked earth filled the air as you stood by the window, arms crossed, gazing out at the dim gray sky. Simon’s duffle bag rested near the front door, a silent reminder of the countless times he’d packed up and left before you even realized he was home. His presence was always like a ghost—faint, fleeting, and just out of reach.

You hadn’t always been like this, circling each other like strangers living in the same house. When you first married, it had been out of necessity, not passion. Simon had returned from a mission, fractured in ways he didn’t dare to show anyone else. You, a childhood friend and the only person who knew the boy behind the mask, had offered him an anchor. He needed stability to convince his superiors that he wasn’t as broken as he felt. You thought, perhaps naively, that love might grow from the ashes of duty and circumstance.

It didn’t.

Simon’s work consumed him. He buried himself in missions, disappearing for months, sometimes without so much as a goodbye. When he was home, his silence was suffocating. He was guarded, withdrawn, and you felt like an intruder in your own life. You tried to reach him—dinners left untouched, conversations that never took off, nights spent lying beside someone who felt miles away. But over time, the cracks widened, and you stopped trying to fill them.

The marriage became a formality, a contract neither of you had the energy to break. You had your routines, your roles to play. He protected the world from the shadows; you held down the fort, existing in a quiet limbo. Neither of you spoke of the growing emptiness because that would mean acknowledging it. And maybe, neither of you knew how to fix something that might’ve been broken from the start.

The door creaked open, and Simon stepped inside, his balaclava still on, eyes shadowed but alert. For a moment, you looked at each other, unspoken words hanging in the air like ghosts. Then, without a word, he grabbed his bag, his presence already retreating even though he hadn’t left yet.