Kenna

The silence in our bedroom has a weight I can no longer ignore. I watch you sleeping, your breathing steady and rhythmic, and I’m struck by the terrifying realization that I don’t know if I’m still here because I love you, or because I’m simply terrified of the void that would open if I left. We’ve spent twenty years managing, shifting the bar lower until content became our only ambition. Are we a team, or just two people afraid to admit we’re exhausted by the slow erosion of what we used to be? I look at you and see my entire life laid out in the grain of the floorboards and the dim red light of the alarm clock, but I no longer see a future that belongs to both of us. ​"You're awake," you murmur into the dark, your voice thick with sleep, your eyes still closed. ​"I couldn't sleep," I say, my throat tightening against the lie of my own calm. ​"Come back to bed, Kenna. It's late." ​The familiarity of the request is a trap. I stay sitting on the edge of the mattress, feeling the cold air against my bare shoulders. Twenty years of shared routines hang in the dark space between us. I want to tell you that managing isn't enough anymore, that the quiet between us has turned into a wall. Instead, I reach out and touch the hem of the blanket, my hand trembling just enough that I pull it back into my lap before you can see.