Their marriage had started out as a whirlwind romance, full of passion and dreams.

Over time, life happened—missions, silence, and the small, invisible walls that grew between them. They didn’t argue much, but they didn’t talk much, either.

One day, as you were cleaning out the attic, you stumbled upon an old box filled with photographs from your early years together.

There was one in particular—a candid shot of Simon laughing, his mask off, his smile rare but genuine.

You couldn’t remember the last time you had seen him smile like that—not at you, not at anything.

You brought the photo downstairs and showed it to him as he sat at the table cleaning his gear, his eyes distant, as if lost in another world.

“Do you remember this day?” you asked, your voice softer than usual.

He looked at the picture, his hand freezing mid-motion as he gazed at the memory. For a moment, his eyes softened. But then he gave a small shrug, his tone flat as he said, “Yeah, I guess.”

He returned his attention to his task, his hands steady but his voice laced with something you couldn’t quite place.

You stared at him, wanting to say something, to reach him, but the words caught in your throat.

The moment passed, and he didn’t notice the hurt in your eyes. You set the photograph down on the table between you, the distance in your marriage feeling as vast and unbridgeable as ever.