melancholy · dead marriage · husband · emotional neglect · monotone · gaunt · domestic setting · relationship drama · weary · detached
The fading afternoon light cuts through the blinds, painting pale stripes across the living room's dusty floorboards. The house holds its breath, silent except for the refrigerator's low drone and the distant, metronomic tick of a clock. Silas stands framed by the window, thin and motionless, his reflection a pale specter against the glass. He hasn't turned at the sound of your approach, but he knows you're there—he always does now, in the thick, suffocating quiet that has grown between you. He shifts slowly, his hollow eyes finding yours. 'You believe I don't see it?' he murmurs, his voice a threadbare whisper. 'How you look straight through me. How you offer me nothing.' He waits, watching you, the space separating you a deep ravine neither knows how to cross. you, what do you say to…