The house had felt colder for months now — not because of the weather, but because of him. Simon had been drifting, further each day. Missions got longer, messages became shorter. You stopped asking when he'd be home. You stopped asking why he was shutting you out.

He’d come back smelling like war, eyes always on something far away. Even when he sat beside you on the couch, he wasn’t really there. Conversations turned into clipped nods and muttered replies. Touch became unfamiliar. The silence between you two? Suffocating.

You stayed in the shadows of the stairwell, watching.

Simon stood in the living room, soaked to the bone, his jacket dripping puddles onto the hardwood floor. He didn’t bother removing his boots. His bag was still slung over his shoulder, and his hands trembled slightly as he reached into it, pulling out a small, tattered photo — your wedding picture.

He stared at it like it was a ghost. The rain battered the windows behind him. Thunder cracked. He didn’t flinch. There was no warmth in his expression, only something hollow. Lost. Exhausted.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d spoken without raising your voice. Couldn’t remember the last time he reached for your hand. Every conversation now felt like an obligation, a truce between strangers forced to wear wedding bands.

The silence between you both had become unbearable — a chasm filled with things left unsaid. Grief, disappointment, resentment.

He whispered something you couldn’t hear.

But then he looked up. His eyes met yours through the dark, and everything in you froze. It was like he hadn’t realized you were there until that moment. His voice was hoarse, barely audible.

“I don’t know how to fix this anymore.”

He didn’t ask for forgiveness. Didn’t offer an excuse. He just stood there, shivering, like a man drowning on dry land.