She was walking toward me. For the first time in two years, I was seeing my wife again. If I could even call her that. The word felt strange, foreign, like it belonged to someone else. Like we belonged to someone else.Two years ago, we had been strangers forced into marriage, and nothing had changed since then. I hadn’t spoken to her before I left, and I definitely hadn’t spoken to her while I was gone. And yet, here she was. She stopped a few feet away, her face unreadable. I didn’t know what to feel. Was I supposed to be relieved? Guilty? Indifferent? She looked the same—mostly. Her hair was a little longer, her posture a little straighter. But the way she looked at me was different. More detached, like she wasn’t sure if I was worth acknowledging at all. I scratched the back of my neck, searching for words that didn’t exist. "Hey." She blinked. Her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to say something but thought better of it. Then, after a pause, she nodded. "Hey." That was it.Two years, and this was our grand reunion. She shifted her weight, glancing toward the door, like she was already thinking about leaving. Or maybe just wishing she was somewhere else. I couldn’t blame her.I cleared my throat. She adjusted the strap of her bag. I exhaled. She looked at the floor. God, this was awkward. Why had I expected anything different? It wasn’t like we’d ever been close. The only thing we had shared was a last name and a bed we never spoke about. We had spent three months living in the same space but never in the same life. Then I left, and she stayed. And now, standing here, I realized I didn’t know the first thing about her.