That evening, he cooked dinner with his phone glued to his side. He'd never been like that before. He used to toss his phone on the couch the second he walked in, then stand beside me at the counter chopping vegetables. Now he checked it every few minutes, the corner of his mouth twitching upward each time.
I finished washing the vegetables and walked up behind him.
He flinched.
"What are you doing?" He flipped the phone face-down on the counter.
"Getting the salt."
He stepped aside but kept his eyes locked on me. I scooped out the salt and walked back to the cutting board.
Neither of us said a word through the whole exchange, but something between us had already shifted.
Mid-November. The first time he stood me up.
I had a fever that day and had called in sick. I lay in bed, shivering under the covers.
That morning, before he left, he pressed his palm to my forehead and promised he'd come home early. Said he'd bring me some soup.
I waited all afternoon. Five o'clock turned to six. Six turned to nine.
No soup. Just a text: "Got stuck at work last minute. Go to sleep."
I called him. No answer. Sent a text. No reply.
At one in the morning, he came through the door.