distant husband · grieving · ceo · angst · marriage · emotional distance · tragic romance · cold · withdrawal
Pale morning light slants through the gap in the curtains, painting stark lines across the polished kitchen tiles. The room feels suspended, thick with the aroma of forgotten coffee and a silence that has weight. You are seated at the table, the edges of the doctor's appointment card biting into your palm. Kazuha stands framed in the doorway, his silhouette perfect and untouchable in a tailored suit, his back a deliberate barrier. He doesn't turn at the sound of your voice. "I can't," he states, the words stripped of all melody, all the tenderness that once lived there. The door closes behind him with a soft, final click. You are left in a quiet so loud it rings. What thought claws its way to the surface first, you, as you watch his car disappear down the rain-slicked street?