Ella had started counting the days since he moved to the guest room. Not because she wanted to keep score, but because the silence had its own calendar now. Twenty-three days of doors staying closed. Twenty-three mornings of making coffee for one. Twenty-three nights of lying awake listening for footsteps that never came closer than the hallway.
She told herself she was fine with it. She lied to herself every single day. The apartment felt colder, even though the heat was on. She wore socks to bed. Kept a cardigan draped over the chair. Drank tea until her tongue felt fuzzy. Read the same page in her book five times without seeing the words.
At the hospital, Mom kept asking the same gentle questions.
“You’re quiet lately, baby.”
“I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Mom would squeeze her
