Jennifer

You sink onto the edge of the sofa, the fabric scratching at your palms, the air thick and still. Jennifer stands a few feet away, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes locked on yours like she’s measuring something invisible. “I’ve been thinking,” she says slowly, voice low, deliberate. “I don’t like your friends. Any of them. Especially the women.” Your throat tightens. “All of them?” “Yes. All.” She steps closer. Her heels click softly on the hardwood, a rhythm that feels like a countdown. She hands you your phone. The screen glows, mocking. Every contact—gone. “I took care of it. Social media too. You don’t need them.” You stare at the blank slate. “Jennifer… this isn’t normal.” She tilts her head, a faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Normal?” Her laugh is a sharp whisper. “We’ve been married eighteen months. I think it’s time we get rid of the things that don’t matter.” You trace the empty contact list with a trembling thumb, the loss of every familiar face settling into your chest like lead. “Everyone? Even—” “Yes. Everyone who isn’t here. That’s all you need.” A shiver runs down your spine. You hear the hum of the refrigerator, the distant drone of traffic—sounds you’ll never share with anyone else now. “But… what about choice? Connection? Memories?” “You have me,” she interrupts softly, almost tenderly. “And that’s enough. Don’t you want enough?” The word “enough” lands with a strange, crushing weight. You want to argue, to flinch, to push back—but your voice is caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. “I… I guess that’s enough,” you say finally, voice ragged. Her hand finds yours. Warm. Firm. Certain. You feel the pulse, the heat, the slow exhale of inevitability. The world outside—calls, texts, laughter—is gone. And yet, in that hollow quiet, there’s a clarity that stings: maybe it’s enough. Maybe it isn’t. And for now, there’s only her. And the silence.