This was no longer a bad week. No longer a rough patch. No longer miscommunication. This was something else. I was losing him. And he wasn't fighting to stay.
Some days, I don't even remember what we used to talk about. What did we use to laugh about? What did his voice sound like when he called me "baby"? It's strange how the things that once lit your soul can become foggy and blurred like a dream that slipped through your fingers before morning.
Days have gone by. Weeks, maybe. And the pattern hasn't changed. Ethan still comes home late. Sometimes drunk. Always distracted.
And? I started drinking, too. Red wine became my comfort on lonely nights. I pour myself a glass, then another, and sit by the window, pretending I am waiting for him, but really, I am just staring into nothing.
He comes home to sleep, to shower, to exist in the same space without touching me, without looking at me like he used to. I sometimes wonder if he would even notice if I moved out.
I started to ask myself questions. Real questions.
What am I doing here? What happened to me?
I gave up so much for Ethan. My career. My independence. My voice.
And for what?
So I could rot in a cold marriage with cold leftovers and a colder man?
I used to work in publishing. I was good at it. I had dreams of becoming an editor-in-chief. But Ethan didn't like how late I'd stay at the office. How many male authors and agents have I interacted with? How "unnecessary" it was since "he could provide for both of us."
So I quit.
I told myself it was for love.
But love wouldn't leave me staring at a wall night after night, wondering if my husband still sees me as a woman or just a ghost floating around his house.
I knew I needed to do something. Anything.
Going back to work? Maybe.
Take a class, get certified in something new, start fresh, and do something for me for the first time in years.
I didn't have the answers yet. But I knew I couldn't keep sitting in silence while the life drained out of me.
So I started with something simple.
I stopped making dinner for him.
I made my own dinner, plated it nicely, and ate alone. I no longer waited for him like a fool with candles melting on untouched food. I made enough for one. Just me. Because that's all I had anyway.
And when I finished eating, I cleaned my plate, took my wine upstairs, and went to bed.
No more "Welcome home."
No more pretending.
If Ethan wanted food, he could figure it out himself.
It must have shocked him the first few times, though, of course, he didn't say anything directly. Just subtle things louder sighs when he opened the fridge and found it empty. Mumbling under his breath like a child denied dessert.
And I?
I said nothing.
Silence became my shield. My quiet little rebellion.
Unless he talked to me, I didn't try to talk to him. I didn't ask about his day. I didn't comment on the weather his cologne or the new blazer he bought without telling me.
I stopped trying.
And I think that's what irritated him the most.
Because he liked it when I begged. When I chased after him like a lost puppy desperate for scraps. Now that I wasn't feeding his ego, his frustration began to show.
Tonight proved that.
I had finished eating by 8 and had been in bed with a book by 9. I heard the front door open around 10:30. Keys jingling. Shoes thudding. Ethan entered like he didn't share the space with another human being.
He didn't call out.
No "honey, I'm home." Just the fridge door opening and closing, the cabinet slamming.
Then… footsteps.
Heavy ones.
My bedroom door opened, and there he was standing like a shadow in the doorway.
"You didn't make dinner?" he asked, his voice sharp.
I looked up from my book. "No."
"I'm hungry."
"I ate already."
"You didn't think of making something for me?"
I blinked at him. "You never eat what I cook. You come home late and ignore me. I didn't think you'd cared."
He scoffed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Jesus, Tessa. I come home from work tired and hungry and can't even get a meal now?"
"I didn't say you can't. You just need to make it yourself."
He stared at me like I'd slapped him.
And then he muttered, "Fine. Come downstairs and fix something. I'm starving."
I paused. Not because I was shocked but because the old me would've argued. The old me would've cried, demanded fairness, and told him how hurt I felt. But this version of me? I didn't care anymore.
So I got up, put down my book, slid into my slippers, and walked past him without saying a word.
Downstairs, I opened the fridge and took out eggs and toast. Scrambled them in silence. No seasoning, no love. Just mechanical movements and a blank face. I didn't even look at him when I placed the plate on the table.
"There," I said. "Eat."
He watched me like he didn't know who I was anymore. Maybe he did. I barely did.
I turned to leave, but he spoke again.
"This silent treatment? It's childish, Tessa."
I turned slowly. "Is it?"
"You act like I'm the bad guy here."
"I never said you were," I said softly, though every bone in my body screamed the truth.
"You stopped trying."
My laugh came out colder than I meant it to."I stopped chasing someone who clearly doesn't want to be caught."
He didn't respond.
I walked away.
Back upstairs, back into bed, back into the arms of the quiet that no longer felt like punishment but power.
Ethan might've thought silence was surrender.
But he had no idea.