The Slow Unravelling
The first time I knew — really knew — was at the dinner table.
He was across from me, twirling his fork through his pasta, his eyes flicking toward the muted television over my shoulder. I was telling him about a book I’d read, one of those novels that left me hollowed out in the best way, and I wanted to share that feeling with him.
« That sounds good, » he said, but there was no weight to it, no curiosity. He didn’t ask what it was about. He didn’t ask why I loved it.
I stabbed a piece of tomato on my plate and chewed. The air between us had been thinning for months, but I still thought if I could just say the right thing, pull the right string, the knot would tighten again.
So I tried. « Do you remember the first book we read together? »
That finally got his attention. He looked up, blinking as though I’d pulled him out of some far-off thought. « What? »
« The book. From that summer. On the roof. »
I could see it so clearly — the two of us lying on scratchy blankets under a too-warm sky, passing the book between us, taking turns reading aloud until our voices blurred into the hum of cicadas. But his face was blank.
« Was it… that one about the road trip? » he guessed.
It wasn’t.
Something inside me folded in on itself. I gave a small laugh, shook my head. « Never mind. »
He nodded, distracted again. And that was it. A nothing moment, a nothing night. But I felt it. The first real tear in the fabric. The first quiet sign that I was losing him. Or he was losing me.
And the worst part?
He didn’t even notice.
The Second Tear
The music was too loud — so loud it rattled your bones, but he didn’t seem to notice.
He was across the room, laughing with someone I didn’t know, drink in hand, the soft glow of the kitchen lights making everything feel too warm, too distant.
I pressed my back against the wall, fingers curling around my own untouched drink. Once, he would have found me by now. His eyes would have flickered to mine across the room, and he would have known — one look, and he would have known I wanted to leave.
Now, he wasn’t looking at all.
I could have walked out the door that second, and I wasn’t sure he would have even turned around.
So I waited for him to notice me, like a dog waiting for its master. I waited.
The Drive Home
An hour later, he finally trudged over to me, drunk and happy. Jolly enough for the two of us, it seemed.
We got into the car — him in the passenger seat, me driving.
Alcohol tends to liven him up, so I fully expected him to start going on about the countless things his friends had told him, who won the rugby match, the latest gossip.
Nothing. Not a word. Not even a glance my way.
The silence between us stretched, its weight unbearable. The hum of the engine filled the void, a reminder of how long we had been trapped in this echo of a relationship, growing fainter and fainter. His head leaned against the headrest, eyes fixed on the passing streetlights, their glow flickering through the darkened window like memories.
I gripped the wheel a little tighter, the chill from the air conditioning seeping into my skin, but the cold was nothing compared to the frost that had settled in my chest. Every time I tried to speak, my throat tightened, the words dying on my lips before they could even form. It wasn’t worth it. Not anymore.
Then he shifted in his seat, his voice a low, slurred murmur that somehow cut through the tension. « You still reading that book? » he asked, his tone flat, as though he had just remembered I existed.
The words came out more like a statement than a question, but something in them made me look over at him. His face was turned toward the window. For a moment, the thought crossed my mind: maybe this was it. Maybe this was the crack I needed to finally break through.
« I finished it, » I said, my voice soft, barely louder than the engine’s growl. « It was… beautiful. It made me feel things I didn’t know I could still feel. »
He didn’t respond right away. I almost thought he hadn’t heard me, that he was too far gone in his haze of indifference. But then, without shifting his gaze from the dark road ahead, he muttered, « That sounds good. »
I flinched, a sharp sting blooming behind my ribs. It was the same line he’d given me at dinner, the same hollow syllables that meant nothing at all. I swallowed hard, willing the lump in my throat to dissolve.
And then, in a rare moment of vulnerability, I spoke the words that had been gnawing at me for days, weeks, months.
« Why am I the only one still fighting for us? »
For the first time that night, he turned to look at me, his gaze blurry and unfocused. But there was something in his eyes—something unusual. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even affection. It was resignation, as though he had already accepted this. As though he had already decided I wasn’t worth fighting for.
« I do care, » he said, but it didn’t sound real. His voice was thick, distorted by the alcohol, and I knew he was only saying the words because they were what he thought I needed to hear. Not because he meant them.
I couldn’t bring myself to answer. I just kept my eyes on the road, the miles slipping away beneath us, the space between us widening with every passing second.
The Goodbye
The last moment came quietly.
I had packed a bag that morning, knowing the decision was inevitable. I told myself a hundred times that I would leave when the time was right, when I had finally given everything I could, when I had exhausted each and every last chance. But the time never felt right.
Now it just felt like something I had to do. It was already too late to turn back.
I stood in the doorway, my fingers trembling as I gripped the handle. He was still sleeping, sprawled out on the couch, his face peaceful, unaware. The stillness of the room was almost suffocating, but it was also comforting — a brief moment of calm before everything changed. The silence before the storm.
I didn’t want to wake him. I didn’t want him to see me go, because that would mean he had noticed me leaving. And he never had, not really.
My heart felt heavy in my chest, a weight I couldn’t shake. I took one last look at him — at the person I thought I’d spend forever with, who was now a stranger lying in the space we used to share.
I let out a breath and closed the door behind me. The soft click was the only sound that echoed through the house.
And for the last time, he didn’t even notice.