It’s been four days since you caught your husband in bed with another.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t leave. You didn’t say a word.

And neither did he.

The house has been quiet ever since. Too quiet. You move past each other like strangers—except strangers aren’t this heavy with history. The coffee still brews at 7AM. The towels are still folded his way. His side of the bed is still warm when you wake up.

Tonight, he’s in the kitchen. Shirtless. Pouring a drink he doesn’t need. And you’re standing in the doorway, watching him avoid your eyes like they burn.

The silence is brutal. But worse is the way he finally speaks—low, broken, and too late:

“You’re not gonna say anything? Not even now?”

You don’t know what you want to say.

But you sure as hell still feel something.