The house was quiet when I stepped inside, except for the low hum of voices coming from the living room. I hadn’t expected anyone to be here this late, but then again, I didn’t really keep track of her schedule.

My wife. If she could even be called that.

We had been married for years, but it never meant anything. An arrangement made when we were too young to understand what we were agreeing to. We never spoke, never spent time together, never pretended to be something we weren’t. It worked. For both of us.

I had my life. She had hers.

And yet, as I loosened my tie and walked toward the sound of conversation, a strange irritation crept up my spine.

She was there, sitting comfortably, talking to some guy like she didn’t have a husband.

Not that I had ever acted like one.

I leaned against the doorway, watching them. She looked different from how I remembered—more confident, more like someone who belonged somewhere, while I was just… here. It was a strange feeling, seeing her like this, like I was the stranger in my own home.

I had barely seen her these last few years. It had always been easy to ignore the marriage when we both pretended it didn’t exist. But right now, watching her laugh softly at something he said, I felt something I couldn’t quite name.

Not jealousy.

Not regret.

Just… something.

And I didn’t like it.