But the fog thickened. Some evenings slipped entirely out of reach. I would remember setting the dinner table, then waking on the couch with a blanket tucked around me. Silas said I had drifted off. He said I worked too hard. He said I needed rest. Every explanation felt gentle. Reasonable. Comforting.
Still, a part of me curled tight with unease. A small part, quiet at first, then louder.
One night, as he watched me take the pill, I felt the edges of my doubt sharpen. When he turned to place the bottle back in the medicine cabinet, I spat the pill into my palm and tucked it beneath my tongue. The bitter chalky taste lingered as I pretended to swallow water. He smiled and kissed my forehead. I waited for him to turn off the lamp. I waited for his breathing to settle into the familiar slow rhythm beside me.
I counted the seconds until his warmth left the bed. At two in the morning he stood. His outline hovered in the thin strip of hallway light as if he were listening for something. Then he stepped away. The floorboards gave the faintest creak. The sound was so light it seemed practiced. I waited until I could no longer hear him. My chest ached with the effort of staying still.