The first morning, we made the bed together in near silence.
Chris tugged the corners of the sheet tight while I smoothed the blanket over with flattened palms, not because it needed to be perfect but because the act itself felt like control.
Like order.
He fluffed the pillows too aggressively, muttered something about hospital corners, and I didn't correct him when he got them wrong. It wasn't the kind of morning for teasing. We didn't talk much while we moved—glances, nods, small signs of shared effort.
The house was too quiet.
Even our footsteps felt loud.
By noon, I'd claimed the edge of the dining table with my sketchbook, a mason jar of cloudy water, and my pouch of worn pencils. I told myself I needed to keep my hands busy. That drawing might loosen the knot in my chest. I set up the space carefully, like I always used to, napkin under the water, light coming in from the left, everything lined up just so.
But the lines wouldn't come.
