Strategic Silence

They looked like a couple people trusted. The kind that showed up together,

laughed at the right moments, remembered birthdays. Friends said they were “solid,” which

sounded safe, even flattering. Neither of them argued with that description,

mostly because it was easier than explaining the truth. The truth was quieter. They lived in the

same space but in different moments. Mornings were rushed, all half-finished sentences and coffee

growing cold. Nights were polite. They asked how the other’s day was and listened just

enough to respond, not enough to notice what was missing. Love had turned into maintenance.

At first, the distance felt temporary—just stress, just a phase. They told themselves