Elizabeth
Alexander hadn't spoken to me in over a month.
He wasn't cruel about it, just distant in a way that felt deliberate. If I came into a room, he'd leave. If I tried to engage him, he'd respond with a clipped "I'm busy" or a distracted nod. At first, I thought he was just overwhelmed with work, but the longer it went on, the more obvious it became—he was avoiding me.
And not just emotionally. He'd stopped sleeping in the room we were supposed to share, retreating somewhere else in the house without a word of explanation. I told myself to give him space, but it was impossible to ignore the knot of frustration and hurt growing tighter in my chest. This marriage was already failing before it had the chance to start.
For a moment, I just stared at the empty couch beside me. The anger I'd been nursing for weeks threatened to bubble over, but I swallowed it down, forcing myself to keep calm.
I slipped out of bed and padded to the bathroom, taking my time as I got ready for the day. My reflection in the mirror looked composed, but my mind was a mess of thoughts. If Alexander had his way, I'd probably never see the inside of his head.
I chose a soft beige sweater and black slacks—simple but fitted, enough to feel put together even if I doubted he'd notice. My hand hesitated on the door as I looked back at the room. Our room.
But it didn't feel like ours.
The hallway was quiet as I made my way downstairs. I wasn't sure if I was even expected for breakfast anymore, not that Alexander had ever formally invited me.
When I reached the dining room, I hesitated. The door was ajar, and I caught a glimpse of him sitting at the long table.
His back was to me, his shoulders squared as he read the morning paper. The dark wood of the table stretched between us, already set with two plates, but mine was nowhere near his. It sat at the opposite end of the table, a silent statement of the distance he intended to keep.
I stepped inside, my heels clicking softly against the hardwood floor. He lowered the paper slightly, just enough to glance at me. His expression was blank, the same mask I'd grown used to over the last month.
"Good morning," I said, breaking the silence.
"Morning," he replied, his tone as neutral as his expression.
I waited for more—a question, an acknowledgment, something—but he lifted the paper again, shutting me out.
My chest tightened, but I moved to my place at the far end of the table. I glanced at the spread of food—eggs, toast, coffee—all set perfectly in front of me, as if this performance of civility could make up for everything else.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet.
I blinked at him, surprised he'd even asked. "Well enough," I said, trying to keep my tone even. "You?"
He didn't answer, returning his attention to the paper as though the conversation hadn't happened.
I tightened my grip on the edge of my napkin, staring down at my plate. The weight of the distance between us wasn't just physical—it was in every word left unsaid, every look avoided, every moment he kept me at arm's length.
But I wasn't going to let this continue. Not today.
"I can't keep doing this, Alexander." My voice cracked, but I forced the words out anyway. "Why are you avoiding me?"
He didn't look at me immediately. Instead, he folded the newspaper with meticulous care, as if it were the most important thing in the world. When he finally met my eyes, his gaze was cold.
"I'm not avoiding you." He said simply. "I'm giving us what we need—space."
I blinked, momentarily thrown by the absurdity of his response. "Space? Is that what you call it? You barely speak to me, Alexander. You leave before I wake up, you come home after I've gone to bed. You've turned our marriage into a ghost town and you call it space?"
"Yes. Because that's what this is—what it's always been. A contract, Elizabeth. Not a fairy tale."
The words hit me like a slap. I stared at him, struggling to keep my voice steady. "A contract?" I repeated, each syllable tasting bitter. "That's all this is to you?"
His expression didn't waver. "Yes. This is an arrangement where we both know our roles and stick to them. I told you before, Elizabeth, this is a business transaction between our families."
Of course, how could I forget?
"You of all people should know that," he continued coolly, his tone sharper now. "It's not about love or endless closeness or unrealistic expectations. It's about structure. Boundaries. Knowing exactly where you stand so no one gets hurt."
"No one gets hurt?" I echoed. "Do you hear yourself? You think this—" I gestured wildly between us, "—is some kind of protection? That this wall you've built around yourself is keeping anyone safe?"
"It's keeping things stable." His voice was low, controlled, yet it vibrated with restrained frustration. "It's how I've survived, Elizabeth. This is how this marriage should be. We each play our parts. We fulfill our obligations. That's it. That's all it needs to be."
"And what about me?" My voice cracked, the words spilling out before I could stop them. "Where do I fit in your perfect, clinical definition of our marriage? What part am I supposed to play? The quiet, obedient wife who stays in her lane while you hide behind your damned walls?"
His jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with something I couldn't name. "I don't expect anything from you, Elizabeth," he said, his tone colder now. "And you shouldn't expect anything from me. That's how this works. That's how it stays clean."
"Clean?" I whispered, the word catching in my throat. "Is that what this is to you? A sanitized transaction? A sterile arrangement where emotions are liabilities?"
"Yes." The single word fell like a gavel, final and absolute.
"So that's it? That's all we are to you? Two people tied together by a contract, playing roles in a charade you refuse to call a marriage?"
He exhaled sharply, a flicker of something crossing his face before he masked it again. "This is the only way it works, Elizabeth. The only way it doesn't fall apart."
"No, Alexander," I said, shaking my head, my voice trembling with anger and heartbreak. "This isn't working. This is falling apart, and you don't even see it."
For a moment, I thought I saw his armor crack. His eyes softened, just for a heartbeat, before the cold steel returned. "You wanted honesty," he said quietly. "I won't pretend to be something I'm not. I won't pretend this is something it isn't."
I stared at him, my chest tightening with the weight of everything I couldn't say. He had laid his truth bare, but all it did was confirm my worst fear: I was fighting for something he had never believed in.
Without another word, I turned and walked out. As I reached the door, I heard him speak again, his voice softer, almost broken.
"I don't want you to get hurt, Elizabeth."
I paused but didn't turn around. "Then maybe you shouldn't have married me," I whispered, the words barely audible even to myself.