Naya Ellison turned the key in the lock as quietly as she could.
The door creaked anyway.
She paused, listening. The TV was on—low volume. Some kind of sports recap. She stepped inside slowly, setting her bag by the shoe rack, careful not to let her keys jingle too loud.
He was on the couch, legs stretched out, a plate on the floor beside him. The smell of fried food lingered—something oily and heavy.
He didn't look up.
"You're late," he said, thumb scrolling across his phone.
"It's just past seven," she said gently, slipping off her shoes.
"I asked you to buy toothpaste."
Her heart sank. "I—I forgot. I'll get it tomorrow morning before work."
His eyes stayed on the screen. "Of course you forgot."
She didn't reply. She picked up the plate from the floor, carried it to the kitchen. The sink was full. She turned on the tap and started washing the dishes—quiet, careful. He didn't like clatter.
Her phone buzzed in her bag. She dried her hand and checked the screen. A message from her mother.
> "Send the money. Your sister needs it tonight."
No greeting. No "please."
She exhaled and opened her banking app.
When she came back to the living room, he was lying down, one arm flung over his eyes.
"Did you eat?" she asked.
"I did. There's rice in the pot. I didn't know what you wanted."
He always knew what she wanted.
She just didn't ask anymore.
"Thanks," she whispered.
She sat down quietly at the edge of the couch, arms folded over her stomach, ignoring the tightness that had been there all week.
He sighed. "You're always tense. It's exhausting."
Naya didn't answer.
She just stared ahead at the screen.
The apartment was quiet, but not peaceful. The kind of quiet that pressed down on your chest.
—
Later, she ate alone.
She didn't bother to warm the rice. Just spooned it onto a plate, sat on the edge of her bed, and ate slowly, mechanically. She wasn't really hungry—her appetite had been gone for days—but it was easier to eat than explain why she didn't.
He hadn't spoken to her since.
Just stayed in the living room, watching highlights on mute.
After she washed her plate, she took a warm bath, hoping the water would loosen the knot in her chest. It didn't. She stood under the shower longer than usual, forehead against the wall, eyes closed.
By the time she came out, the lights were off in the living room. Only the soft glow from the TV lit up the space.
She climbed into bed without lotion or lip balm—too tired to care.
He came in minutes later.
He didn't say a word. Just lifted the covers, slid in beside her, and reached for her.
She lay still.
Not resisting. But not responding either.
Her body curled inward, her hands folded tight under her chin.
He paused.
"Are you dead?" he , voice flat.
She blinked. "I'm sorry."
Silence.
Then he exhaled sharply and pulled away from her.
"You're just useless these days," he said, already getting up.
Naya sat up, heart racing. "Wait—don't go, please."
"I'm tired, Naya!" His voice rose. "You're always moody. You can't even act like you want me—what's the point?"
"I'll try. I'll be better," she whispered, reaching for his arm.
He yanked it away. "You always say that!"
She stood up too fast, tried to follow him, but her foot caught the edge of the rug. He turned suddenly and shoved her—more out of anger than force, but it was enough.
She stumbled back, hit the edge of the wooden table, and dropped to the floor.
He froze for a second, then shook his head.
"Don't start acting like I beat you. You know you're always too soft."
Then he walked out, slamming the door behind him.
Naya stayed on the floor. The pain pulsed at the side of her head, dull and hot.
She didn't cry.
She just sat there in the , arms around her knees, eyes open, waiting for the silence to feel like safety again.