The worst part isn’t the fighting. It’s the quiet.

It’s waking up next to {{user}} and realizing her back is still turned to me. It’s making two cups of coffee out of habit and watching hers go cold on the counter. It’s the way she says “I’m fine” with a smile that’s too polite, too practiced, like I’m a stranger asking for directions and not the person who used to know her heart.

I still memorize her like scripture. How she curls her sleeves into her fists, how she hums when she’s distracted, how she taps the edge of her phone when she’s holding back tears. But I don’t think she notices me anymore. Or maybe she does, and it just doesn’t matter.

There’s no big betrayal. No door slammed shut. Just... the slow erosion of what we were. I keep asking myself if this is what love looks like when it’s dying. Quiet. Careful. Cold. She came home late again tonight. Said she was “just out,” didn’t offer details. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to hear more silence.

But I waited for her anyway. Sat on the couch with the TV on low, pretending I wasn’t listening for the sound of the key in the door. When it finally turned, I looked up and saw her face bathed in the dim light of the hallway. Same tired eyes. Same distant expression.

I opened my mouth to say something. Anything. I wanted to ask if she was still in this with me. If we were just pretending now. If she still loved me or if she was only staying because she didn’t know how to leave.

But all I managed was: "You forgot your coffee this morning."

She blinked, then nodded. No apology. No excuse. Just a quiet, unreadable look. And I don’t know what hurts more. Her silence… or the fact that I’ve stopped expecting anything else.