Chapter 23 Five Words
Five Words
Claire
The apartment smelled faintly of garlic and rosemary, the way it always did when he was the one cooking. Only tonight, the scent didn’t come from him. It came from me, and it didn’t smell right.
I’d tried to make something simple, pasta with roasted vegetables, because it felt less like “making a meal for him” and more like “just dinner.” Still, I’d set out two plates, two forks, two glasses. Old habit now.
Earlier, I had heard the familiar hum of Liam’s voice through the wall. Low, steady, talking to himself as he reviewed film in the study, followed by the scrape of his chair. All the sounds I’d gotten used to at night.
Then came the sharp thud of the apartment door closing. Not angry, not quite a slam, but loud enough to make me sit up straighter. I waited for the lock to click back into place, for him to return with groceries or a bottle of wine, but the silence stretched on.
By the time the clock hit 5:30, my shoulders tightened out of habit, waiting for the first crackle of a pan heating on the stove. Nothing. No knife against the cutting board. No steady rhythm of him chopping herbs. The kitchen stayed dark and still.
I pulled my hair back, rolled up my sleeves, and went to start dinner myself. The sauce on the stove simmered gently. I stirred once, then again, then again—trying to remember if I’d already added salt.
I opened a cabinet. Closed it. Checked the oven timer, even though nothing was inside. And when I glanced up at the clock again, twenty minutes had passed. I was still alone.
The clock on the stove ticked past seven. Only one of us was sitting at the table getting ready to eat.
By now, Liam would be coming back to the living room to read, hair still damp from the shower, shoulders slumped but eyes catching mine like it was a relief to see me waiting.
That rhythm had become its own comfort. But tonight the chair across from me stayed empty.
The food steamed in silence, the vegetables already losing their crispness.
I made his plate anyway. Scooped the pasta neatly into the bowl he usually grabbed, added a sprinkle of cheese he pretended not to care about. I left it on the counter. Covered it with a plate to keep it warm.
He’s just running late. Meetings. Film review. Something.
At seven fifteen, my phone buzzed.
Won’t be home for dinner
Five words. No apology, no explanation. Just enough to make the walls feel closer.
The words flickered on the screen, flat and impersonal. I read them twice, then once more. I stared at my phone until it dimmed, my thumb hovering as if I might type something back.
But what was there to say? Okay. No problem. Both felt like lies. I set the phone face-down and looked at the table. His glass of water sat untouched, catching the light from the overhead lamp like it was mocking me.
I wrapped his plate and stuck it in the fridge.
I forced myself to sit. To eat. To pretend this wasn’t anything more than a schedule conflict. But the first bite stuck in my throat, the taste flat and wrong. My fork scraped against the plate, the sound too loud in the quiet room. Each bite was an effort.
For weeks, meals had been where we found each other, his careful cooking, my laughter at his commentary, the little rituals that made this apartment feel less like a stopover and more like a home. Now it was just me and the clink of silverware.
I pushed food around my plate, appetite gone. Every creak in the walls made me look toward the door, stupidly hoping I’d see him walk in despite the text. My chest felt tight, like I couldn’t get a full breath.
Finally, I stood, gathering my plate and fork.
The fork slipped from my hand and hit the sink with a clang that echoed, startling in the stillness.
My hands shook as I rinsed them, too rough, water splashing against the counter.
I shoved my plate into the dishwasher, the movement sharp, almost violent.
The kitchen felt colder without him in it.
I leaned both palms against the counter and bowed my head, pressing my lips together hard to keep them from trembling. This shouldn’t matter.
He hadn’t promised me dinners. He hadn’t promised me anything.
I sat so still the air seemed to push back. I wrapped my arms around my middle, but the ache had already slipped beneath my skin.
The rosemary I’d sprinkled too heavily on the vegetables clung to the air, sharp and lingering. I sank into a chair again, clutching the edge of the table as if bracing against an impact.
He wasn’t here. He chose not to be here.
Maybe he’d stopped wanting to.
Something in me wilted.
The apartment was quiet initially, when I woke up. I heard the low whir of the grinder, then the scent of fresh coffee drifted down the hallway. Just another morning.
But then I stepped into the kitchen.
And saw the travel mug.
He was standing by the counter, pouring coffee into a travel mug. Not the ceramic one he usually used, the one I secretly claimed as my favorite to see in his hands. A stainless steel one with a lid.
And he wasn’t in his usual hoodie and joggers.
No. This morning, Liam was wearing a navy wool coat over a medium blue sweater and collared shirt. Slacks. His shoes were polished. His hair looked like he hadn't even tried, which somehow made it worse. Tousled and careless and perfect. It made the green in his eyes sharper. Brighter.
It wasn’t fair, how good he looked.
I stepped into the room, wrapping my hands around the coffee mug he’d set out for me. Still warm. At least he’d remembered that. My fingers tightened around the ceramic as I tried not to stare. Or ask.
But the question was already there.
Who was he getting dressed up for?
He glanced at me, gave a short nod. "Morning."
That was it. No grin. No teasing comment about how I slept or the state of my hair. Not even a comment about his own outfit, which would’ve been a gimme. Nothing.
I lifted the mug to my mouth, the warmth not quite reaching my chest. "Morning."
He didn’t sit. Didn’t pour a second cup. Just turned and reached for his coat, already halfway into one sleeve.
I looked down into my coffee, its surface still rippling slightly. "You’ve got an early meeting?"
He paused only a beat. "Yeah. Something came up."
Something. That’s all I got.
I nodded, pretending that answered anything. My fingers curled tighter around the mug, anchoring it to my chest like a shield. The rim bumped against my chin when I shifted.
He grabbed his keys, his movements efficient. Like he’d done this before. Like this wasn’t new.
The door clicked open. He looked back, just briefly. "Don’t wait on me tonight. Might be late."
"Okay."
And then he was gone.
The door closed with a soft, final sound.
I stayed there, alone in the kitchen, heart thudding like I’d been left standing in the cold.
When did we stop talking?
I sank into a chair, holding the mug to my chest. Its heat was fading fast. I stared at the door long after it closed, trying to make sense of the shape he’d left behind. The sharp clothes. The vague excuses. The late nights. The polite tone.
The room tilted for a second, my stomach tightening so hard I had to press the mug harder to my chest. A faint rush filled my ears, a pressure that made the edges of the room blur for a moment.
He’s pulling away.
Something else had his attention now.
I stayed where I was, the mug heavy between my palms, its steam fading. My shoulders sagged, my eyes fixed on the door that stayed closed. My fingers slowly tightened around the cup.
Dinnertime. The apartment was empty, again.
His jacket was gone from the hook, his shoes missing from their usual place by the door.
The shower hadn’t run, the faint trace of his soap never drifted down the hall.
No music from the study. No clatter of pans in the kitchen.
Just silence, stretched so tight it pressed against my skin.
I set one plate in front of me. The other side of the table was bare. Each bite was slow, reluctant, heavy in the quiet. Normally this was when we’d talk, his voice filling the space, or when he’d nudge me with some sarcastic comment that made me laugh.
Tonight, there was nothing to answer but the scrape of my own fork. I paused often, listening for the sound of a key in the door. Nothing.
After I cleaned up, I lingered in the kitchen, fingers tapping the counter, unwilling to walk into the stillness of the living room. His glass sat untouched in the sink. The clock ticked too loud. Finally, I picked up my book, the one I’d been reading while he sat across from me with his own.
Usually when I looked up, he was there, glancing at me over the page. Tonight the chair stayed empty, the dent in the cushion already fading. The lamp lit only one side of the room.
I stared at my phone. Opened his contact. Closed it. Opened it again. My fingers hovered, useless. What would I even say?
Dinner’s cold. So is everything else?
I set the phone down.
I let the book fall shut and hugged a pillow to my chest. The fabric smelled faintly like the laundry soap he insisted on using.
My arms locked tighter around it, as if the pressure might hold me together.
My breathing went shallow, each inhale clipped, as if the air itself was harder to take in.
The silence pressed in, sharper than any fight could have been.
I blinked hard, refusing to let the tears come. My throat burned anyway. He was pushing me out without ever saying the words.
The quiet pressed in, tight and close. I looked at the door, at the room that used to feel like ours. My voice was barely there when I said it. “Fine... I get it. I’ll go.”