It starts small.
I answer without looking up.
I forget his birthday.
Twice.

He laughs less now.
I count how many days it takes
before he stops trying.
Then I reset the clock
just to watch him hope again.

I tell him I’m tired
when I’m not.
I tell him I love him
when I don’t.

Sometimes I stand in the doorway
just to block the light.
Say nothing,
just let the silence
eat.

He asks if I’m okay.
I say, “Of course.”
And then I look away
too slowly.

I don’t need to raise my hand
to hurt him.
I just
stay.
Long enough
to rot the room.