Chapter Two
The house felt too clean—like it was holding its breath.
Catherine stood in the doorway of the dim living room, watching the sunset smear a soft, desperate orange across the walls. She had spent the whole afternoon staging the scene: candles lined up like quiet witnesses, a playlist humming something slow and apologetic, her silk slip dress clinging in all the places she hoped he still remembered.
For three weeks, Caleb had barely looked at her. Three weeks of quiet knives disguised as silence. Three weeks of pretending they weren’t sleeping in a bed cold enough to feel abandoned in.
Tonight had to work. It just had to.
She smoothed the hem of her dress, breathed once, twice, and whispered to herself, “You can fix this.”
The front door clicked open.
Caleb stepped inside, dropping his keys on the table with a dull thud. He froze the moment he saw her—standing in candlelight, trembling slightly, trying so hard not to look like she was trying.
His jaw tightened. Not a good sign.
“You’re home early,” she said, forcing a smile that tasted a little like humiliation.
“Traffic was light.” His tone was flat, a wall she couldn't see over. His eyes flicked once—over the candles, the music, her dress—and then away, as if the whole scene offended him.
“Caleb,” she said softly, taking a step closer, “can we talk?”
“We’ve talked.”
“We didn’t,” she whispered. “You shut down. You always shut down.”
He exhaled a long, sharp breath. “And you always perform.”
Her throat tightened. The candles flickered as if embarrassed for her.
She moved closer anyway, rested her hand on his arm. “I’m trying, Caleb.”
His muscles stayed rigid under her touch. “Trying what, exactly? To pretend nothing happened?”
“I’m trying to make us work,” she said, voice cracking just enough to betray her. “I miss you.”
It should’ve been enough. It always used to be.
But tonight he stepped back, just out of reach, like the space between them was a cliff she had pushed him toward.
“Catherine,” he said quietly, “this isn’t something you fix with candles and silk.”
Her heart dropped through the floor.
Then—because desperation makes people reckless—she reached for him again. “Let me try. Just… let me try.”
For a second, for the briefest heartbeat, she saw something flicker in his eyes—longing? regret? pain?—but it vanished just as quickly.
He turned away.
The candles burned on, too optimistic for the room they were in.
And Catherine stood there, realizing she had never felt more alone than in the moment she tried her hardest not to be.