The framed photo on the bedside table felt like a relic from another life. Jenna, her dark hair cascading down her shoulders, her smile genuinely reaching her eyes, leaned in to kiss my cheek. We were younger then, maybe a year or two into our relationship. The world hadn’t swallowed her whole yet. Before “Wednesday” mania, before awards shows and red carpets, before the whispers and the incessant flashing of cameras.

Now, the real Jenna felt locked away, hidden behind a carefully constructed public persona.

It had started subtly. A missed dinner here, a cancelled date there. Understandable, I told myself. Landing the lead in a major show was a dream come true. I was supportive, cheering her on, packing her lunches, waiting up for her when she worked late. But the missed dinners morphed into weeks, then months, of barely seeing her. The whispered goodnights devolved into curt “hi”s and “bye”s.

We still shared a bed, technically. But the space between us felt vast, an unbridgeable chasm carved out by her relentless schedule and the suffocating attention that followed her every move.

This morning was a perfect example. I woke up, as I usually did, before her. I made coffee, the rich aroma filling the kitchen, hoping to entice her out of the bedroom. I brewed her favorite blend, adding a splash of oat milk, just the way she liked it. But she didn't appear.

I found her in the office, already dressed, scrolling through her phone. Her face, usually so expressive, was a cool, professional mask.

"Morning," I said, trying to infuse some warmth into my voice.

"Morning," she replied, her eyes flicking up for a fleeting moment before returning to the screen. "Coffee smells good."

"I made some for you," I said, extending a mug towards her.

She took it with a perfunctory "Thanks," and took a sip. "Busy day," she said, the statement hanging in the air like a thinly veiled dismissal.