Tom Reynolds sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the half-empty glass of bourbon in front of him. The house was quiet, too quiet, and the ticking of the clock on the wall made each passing second feel weighty and deliberate. It was just after 3 PM, the sun casting long shadows across the floor. He hadn't heard from Laura since the night before.
He lifted the glass to his lips and took a slow sip, savoring the burn in his throat. She hadn't said much when she left, just a quick "I'll be back later," with that flat tone she had started using in recent months. He hadn't asked where she was going. He hadn't asked much of anything lately.
They'd moved into this house three years ago, fresh off the excitement of a promotion he'd thought would change everything. The extra income, the new place, it had all seemed like a fresh start. But Tom had learned quickly that new curtains and a slightly larger yard didn't fix anything that had already been broken. Laura had looked at him differently then, with a kind of quiet resentment he couldn't pinpoint but always felt. Maybe it was the weight of unspoken things that made it harder to sit across from her each night, harder to find anything to talk about.
The front door creaked open, and Laura stepped inside, kicking off her shoes with a soft sigh. She didn't look at him as she walked past the kitchen, heading straight for the bedroom.
"Where were you?" Tom asked, his voice tight but steady. It was a question that sounded like a demand, though he hadn't meant it that way.
"Out," she said simply, pausing by the doorway. Her back was to him, and he could see the tension in her shoulders. She wasn't angry. Not anymore. It wasn't like before when they'd fight over the small things, the way couples do when there's still something left to fight for. Now it was worse. The silences were deeper.
"Out where?"
She didn't respond for a moment, and Tom felt that familiar sense of uselessness creep in. He wanted to say something, anything, to bring her back. To make her look at him the way she used to. But the words stayed trapped inside him, too heavy to push out.
"Just out," she repeated, finally turning to face him. Her eyes were tired, and he realized, for the hundredth time, that she wasn't coming back—not really. She was already somewhere else, somewhere he couldn't follow.
She didn't need to say it. They both knew. Whatever this was, whatever had started between them all those years ago, was ending. It had been ending for a long time, and now, all that was left was the slow, painful unraveling of everything they had pretended was still whole.
Tom nodded, though he wasn't sure why. He stood up, carrying his glass to the sink, listening to the sound of the water running as he rinsed it out. When he turned around, Laura was gone. He heard the soft click of the bedroom door closing, but it didn't feel like an ending. Just another long pause in a conversation neither of them wanted to finish.
Outside, the sun was setting, the last of the light spilling across the empty street. He watched it for a moment before reaching for the bottle again, pouring another glass and sitting back down. He wondered if she would leave tonight, or if she would wait until morning. Either way, he would still be here, sitting in the same chair, staring at the same half-empty glass, waiting for something he couldn't even name.