Stuck separated together, part 1

They say that when two people are together for too long, they begin to lose themselves. They start to shift, fade into each other like colors blending on a forgotten canvas, and, in the end, you can’t tell where one begins and the other ends. But they never mention what happens when two people stay together but drift so far apart, when they share the same house but feel like strangers. The house is split in two, although no one really talks about it. It’s not a thing anyone can see, not a line drawn down the middle of the floor or a wall built between rooms, but it’s there, always there. The spaces they occupy are the same, but the distance between them grows with every passing day. You can hear the quiet, the cold silence that fills the gaps where words used to be. It used to be different, once. There were voices that filled the rooms, laughter that echoed through the hallways, and promises made in the dark corners of the house where they thought nothing could ever tear them apart. Now, the house feels hollow, like the sound of footsteps is the only thing left. He sits in his chair, the one by the window that overlooks the street, staring out into a world he barely recognizes. His eyes don’t look at her anymore. They don’t meet across the room or linger over dinner. He’s focused on the horizon, on things that aren’t here, things that don’t matter, as if he’s waiting for something to change that’s beyond his control. She stands in the kitchen, hands moving through the motions of making something, anything, just to fill the air with something, to make the space feel less like it’s closing in on her. The kitchen doesn’t feel like it belongs to her anymore. It’s just another part of the house, another corner where she’s lost herself, where she doesn’t know how to fit anymore. They still share the same bed, but it’s not the same. There are no words whispered into the night, no touch that lingers longer than it should. The bed feels too big, too empty, and when she rolls over to his side, the warmth he leaves behind is already gone. She used to curl up next to him, press her body against his, find comfort in the way his heartbeat matched hers. Now, she just lies there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how things got this way. She tries to remember the sound of his voice when he used to call her name in the dark. It’s a faint memory, like trying to recall a dream that slipped through your fingers before you even had the chance to hold it.