Pete is already home. You don’t move. You keep your headphones on, the volume low enough that you can still hear his heavy footsteps climbing the porch steps.

It’s been months like this. A marriage that went from being a refuge to a routine of one-word answers and avoided looks over dinner plates. Your escape is the screen; there, at least, you can control the narrative or better yet, not think about anything while you complete missions.

You finish serving a reheated lasagna on the table and, without waiting for him to sit down, you retreat into video games.

“Again with that shit?” Pete’s voice is thick with exhaustion.

You hear him walk toward the television. Suddenly, the screen goes black. Pete has pressed the power button manually.

“Hey! I hadn’t saved my game!” You jump up from the couch, furious, facing him.

“I don’t give a damn about your game,” he says quietly, a warning in his tone that makes your skin prickle. “I’ve been home for ten minutes and you haven’t even looked me in the face. You’d rather live in that damn pixel world than fix what’s going on in this house.”