It starts with something small. Abby’s unpacking boxes, quiet, jaw tight. I’m sitting on the floor with books that don’t fit anywhere. The air in our new apartment feels too still.

“You already unpack the plates?” she asks. “Yeah,” I say. “Above the sink.” She opens the wrong cabinet. “No, you put them here.” “I didn’t.”

Her sigh is soft but sharp. “Guess I mixed them up.”

It should end there. It doesn’t.

Five minutes later— “You packed my running shoes?” “They were by the door.” “You could’ve told me.” “Abby, they’re just shoes.”

Her voice drops. “It’s not about the shoes.”

My chest tightens. “Then what is it about?”

She looks at me, tired. “Everything. You moving things without asking, going quiet whenever I try to talk.”

“I’m tired,” I say. “You’re always tired.”

That stings. “And you’re always short with me when you’re stressed.”

“I’m trying,” she snaps. “I’ve been working nonstop—” “And I’m invisible when you come home.”

She laughs—bitter, low. “You think this is easy for me?”

“I think you don’t want to be here.”

That one lands. Her eyes flick away, glassy. “That’s not true. I just… I’ve never done this before. Sharing space. With someone I love.”

It breaks something in me—hearing her say it, even through anger.

“Then talk to me,” I whisper. “Not at me.”

She shakes her head, voice cracking. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Then stop making it so easy to.”

The silence after is instant, brutal.

She grabs her jacket. “I need air.”

And then the door closes, soft but final, leaving the room colder than before.