She stopped asking how my day was.

She stopped asking how my day was.

That used to be the first thing I heard when I walked in. Now, nothing. Just silence and the sound of her moving around the kitchen, wiping the counters, packing lunch for tomorrow. I throw my keys down like it doesn’t matter, like I don’t see any of it. And that’s the future I can already picture — us living side by side, talking less every week, until one day we don’t talk at all. But I glance at the counter again. Lunch packed. Trash tied. Coffee pot ready for the morning. All of it done quietly, without me noticing. My chest tightens. I set my phone down and finally say, ‘Hey… thank you for doing all this. I know I don’t say it enough.’ She pauses, cloth still in her hand, and lets out a breath she’s been holding for too long. No smile, but she doesn’t turn away this time. And that’s enough to feel the weight shift. I use an app called ‘quiet effort.’ It keeps me from drifting into the version of us where silence becomes the only thing we share.