Chapter 6
I sent him a sweet good-morning text.
Just something simple, Thinking of you. Hope your day’s not too crazy. Miss you. The kind of message that usually earned a teasing reply, or at least a heart reaction, within minutes.
This time, the little “Delivered” sat there, blue and bright and unwavering.
Unread.
No bubbles. No “Seen.” Nothing.
At first, I didn’t think much of it. He was at work. Busy. Meetings, messages, whatever his days usually threw at him.
But when I sent him a picture of our basil plant, half because it was thriving and half because he liked pretending he was solely responsible for its survival, that stayed unread too.
Two little blue “Delivereds,” untouched.
A tiny pinprick of uncertainty flickered under my ribs, but I shook it off and went about my day.
I washed the sheets. Fed the neighbours cat who sometimes wandered over to our yard. Tried to reread a chapter of the book I’d been inching through for weeks.
Every now and then, I checked my phone.
Still unread.
Still nothing.
It wasn’t alarming. It wasn’t even unusual. Not really.
But… it was different.
Just different enough that I noticed. Just different enough that my stomach tightened a little.
By the time he got home that evening, I’d picked up the house a bit, after just tidying in that absent, automatic way you do when you want something to feel normal.
The door clicked open.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he called, voice warm.
I smiled before I even saw him.
But when he walked in, he wasn’t looking at me.
His eyes were on his phone. His thumb scrolling. His brow pulled slightly together like whatever he was reading had taken up residence somewhere behind his eyes.
“Hi,” I said lightly.
He didn’t answer right away.
Just typed something. Fast. Quick bursts of movement. Then finally lowered the phone, slipping it into his pocket with a breath that didn’t seem to fully land.
I tried not to think about all of my messages, still unread on his phone.
“Hi,” he repeated, belated but gentle, leaning down to kiss my cheek.
I kissed him back, looping an arm around his waist. “Long day?”
“Mm.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Same old.”
“The unread texts were a clue,” I teased, soft and playful.
He froze for half a second, you wouldn’t notice it unless you were looking, but I was looking.
“Oh,” he said quickly. “Yeah, sorry. I was swamped.”
Swamped. Fine. Okay.
I nodded, letting it go even though a part of me, small, quiet, tilted its head at the oddness of it.
He usually had something to say about my day, or my good-morning texts, or really anything I sent him.
He usually had a joke. Or a sappy comment. Or at least a heart.
Tonight he had… silence.
He moved past me into the living room, pulling his phone out again the moment he thought I wasn’t watching.
His thumb moved immediately, tapping out a message, quickly, decisively.
Responding to someone instantly.
Someone who wasn’t me.
I walked toward the kitchen, trying to pretend I wasn’t aware of every sound his fingers made on the glass. “So,” I said casually, pulling two glasses from the cabinet, “how was your day? Any interesting chaos?”
“Not really.”
The answer came too fast, too neat. And he didn’t elaborate the way he usually did.
I stepped closer. “Nothing at all?”
He hesitated, just long enough for something inside me to flicker, and then, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he said, “Nah. Same routines. Same emails. You know how it is.”
He leaned against the counter and turned his phone over in his hand, tapping the corner of the case like he needed something to do with his fingers.
“You okay?” I asked gently.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said quickly.
Too quickly.
He pushed away from the counter and walked past me toward the living room. As he passed, the smell of his cologne, cedar and something warm, brushed over me, grounding me for a second.
But he kept walking, settling onto the couch, phone still in his hand like it was glued there.
I followed, sitting beside him, sliding my knee against his. “You feel far away.”
His breath hitched, subtle, but real.
“I’m here,” he said softly.
And he was. His body, his warmth, his presence.
But something was slightly out of sync, like a song played a fraction of a beat off.
His phone lit up on his thigh.
He clicked it instantly. Typed something. Locked it.
All so fast it felt rehearsed.
I didn’t ask, and I didn’t want to pry. I didn’t want to be the person who checked or questioned or pushed.
That wasn’t who we were.
But my chest tightened anyway, just a little, and I pressed a palm there without thinking. Just a brief, grounding touch.
He glanced over, immediate concern flickering in his expression. “Chest?”
“Just a blip.” I waved it off with a smile. “I’m fine.”
He didn’t look convinced. His eyebrows drew in, subtle but sharp. “You sure?”
“Yes,” I said, softer. “Promise.”
His jaw relaxed a little, but his eyes stayed worried.
If he felt like he was pulling away from me, this was the part that reminded me he loved me deeply, instinctively, no matter what was shifting beneath the surface.
He reached for my hand, threading our fingers together, giving a firm squeeze. “Let’s sit for a bit,” he murmured.
So we did.
We sat side by side on the couch, our legs touching, our hands intertwined, our breaths syncing slowly.
But his phone kept lighting up. And every time, he reacted, fast, tense, immediate.
I pretended not to notice.
He pretended nothing was wrong.
And the space between those two pretenses was a thin, quiet ache under my ribs.
A shift so subtle it barely had a shape.
But I felt it anyway.
And even though I told myself not to read into it, not to spiral, not to assume anything,
The truth settled like a whisper against the back of my mind:
Something was different.
And I didn’t know what yet.
· · ─ ·?· ─ · ·
Callum’s parents called just as the sun dipped behind the neighboring house, tinting the living room in that soft amber haze that made everything feel gentle. His phone lit up on the coffee table, and he glanced at the screen before handing it to me with a small smile.
“They want to check on you,” he said, almost sheepish. “Apparently I’m not giving them enough updates.”
“Monsters,” I whispered dramatically, and he huffed a laugh as I answered.
“Hi, sweetheart!” his mother sang the second the call connected.
I could hear his father in the background going, Move, Linda, I want to see her too, and then the camera jostled, and suddenly his face filled the screen, far too close, as always.
I laughed softly. “Hi, you two.”
They both lit up like Christmas lights, which they always did around me, and it never failed to warm something deep in my chest. His mother launched straight into asking about how I’d slept, how I was feeling, if the herbs she brought smelled too strong, if the blanket was soft enough, if I’d eaten lunch, and somewhere behind all of that was his father chiming in with, “Tell Callum to let you rest more; he works you too hard,” like I had a demanding boss instead of a husband who hovered lovingly at every turn.
“I promise I’m fine,” I said, smiling. “Really.”
His father squinted at me like I was trying to sell him a faulty used car. “I don’t know. You look a little pale. Callum! Does she look pale? She looks pale.”
Callum looked up from where he’d been straightening a stack of mail. “She looks perfect,” he called back.
His father huffed. “Oh, now you show off.”
I laughed again, feeling warmth spill through me. I adored them. I adored how they adored me.
Still, something in me felt slightly… off-kilter. Not physically. Just… emotionally tilted, like some part of the day hadn’t quite settled right.
“Let me step into the bedroom,” I said. “The signal is clearer in there.”
Callum nodded, offering me a soft smile that should’ve eased everything in me. It didn’t, not fully. But I kissed his cheek on my way past him anyway, letting the familiar closeness soften the edges of my uncertainty.
The bedroom was dim and quiet, late light brushing across the bed like a sheet of gold.
I curled onto the edge, tucked the velvety blanket around me, and chatted with his parents for a few minutes more.
They fussed, they joked, they reminded me to rest and hydrate and breathe, as if I’d somehow forget.
When we hung up, the quiet settled around me in a soft, padded way. Too soft. Too padded.
My phone buzzed in my hand.
Thalia: How’s the patient?
I blew out a breath, typing:
Me: I think something’s wrong. Wrong with him.
My phone buzzed immediately.
Thalia: Tell me where he is. I’ll drag him to hell by his damn toenails.
A startled laugh escaped me, too loud for the room. I shook my head, fingers moving.
Me: Consider this my small, pitiful whimper of distress.
It was the best approximation of my feelings, sadness plus mild terror of her very specific threats.
Thalia: I’m serious, Gin. What happened?
I hesitated, chewing on the inside of my cheek.
What had happened?
Nothing. Everything. A collection of tiny moments that didn’t add up to anything concrete. He’d smiled at me. Kissed me. Held me. Helped me wash dishes. Asked about my day. Told me I looked beautiful.
He’d also left my texts unread. He’d also answered something instantly the second he thought I wasn’t looking. He’d also shut down a conversation before I could finish a sentence. He’d also worn that peculiar sort of distance all day, like a shadow he kept trying to shrug off.
Nothing big enough to say out loud.
Everything small enough to feel.
Me: I don’t know. He’s… different. Just a little.
Thalia responded in seconds, because of course she did.
Thalia: Are you okay?
My gaze drifted toward the doorway, where I could hear faint movement. A drawer opening. Something thudding softly onto a table. His voice humming low, maybe talking to himself, maybe talking to someone else. I couldn’t tell.
“I’m fine,” I murmured out loud, even though no one could hear it.
I typed:
Me: Yeah. Just… unsettled, I guess.
Three dots appeared.
Stopped.
Appeared again.
Thalia: Want me to come over? I can pretend I left something at your place and interrogate him with my eyes.
I snorted. God, I loved her.
Me: No. It’s okay. I’m probably overthinking.
Thalia: You’re not an overthinker. You’re an under-sharer. Big difference.
My lips twitched. She wasn’t wrong.
Before I could respond, I heard Callum call softly from the living room:
“Baby? You still talking to them?”
His voice carried that warm little pull in it, the one that usually drew me instantly. I swallowed, thumb hovering over my phone.
Me: I’ll text you later.
Thalia: If he makes you sad I’m setting something on fire (most likely him)
I sent her a heart and put my phone on silent.
When I stepped back into the living room, he was standing near the couch, hands in his pockets, body angled like he’d just been pacing. The TV screensaver glowed gently behind him.
He looked up at me and smiled, but the smile was thinner than usual, stretched in a way I couldn’t quite read.
“Everything good with my parents?” he asked.
“Yes.” I curled onto the couch, leaving space beside me he usually filled without thinking. “They’re sweet.”
He nodded, coming over slowly. He sat next to me, close, but something in the closeness felt measured. Purposeful. Like he was making sure to sit beside me rather than doing it instinctively.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
The question was soft, careful. Too careful.
“Okay,” I said. “A little tired. But okay.”
He nodded again. His gaze dropped briefly to my chest, like he was checking for… I didn’t know. Signs. Twinges. Distress.
“Good,” he murmured. “I just want you taking it easy.”
I leaned into him. His arm came around me after a second, closing the space, but I could feel the beat between the movement and the pull, the hesitation. Small, but present. A pause where there didn’t used to be one.
My fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt.
“Callum?” I said softly.
“Hmm?”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t avoid my eyes. He didn’t sigh or tense or shift.
He just smiled, gentle, warm, practiced.
“Of course,” he said.
I nodded, letting myself believe him because that was what love meant sometimes, trust in the spaces you couldn’t see.
But as I rested my head over his heart, feeling its steady rhythm under my cheek, another rhythm pulsed quietly beneath it, faint but persistent:
Something had shifted. Something small. Something subtle.
And even wrapped in his arms, I couldn’t quite ignore it anymore.