The next two weeks were like walking on eggshells that had already been cracked.
Ella tried to pretend things were getting better. She made coffee every morning even though Alex left before she finished brewing it. She left little notes on the fridge, nothing sappy, just practical, “Soup in the fridge if you’re hungry late.” Or “Mom said hi, she’s doing better.” He never replied. Never took the soup. But sometimes the bowl would be empty the next day, rinsed and in the sink, and that small sign felt like progress.
She told herself it was.
Alex was different now.
Not softer. Not warmer. Just... colder in a new way.
He spoke to her in short bursts, clipped sentences, like every word cost him something. When he came home, he’d nod if she was in the living room, pour a drink, sit in the a
