She doesn’t know
how his footsteps falter
as they cross the threshold
each evening.
The door opens
and closes,
but something shifts
in the air between them—
a weight
that wasn’t there before.

Her hands are busy
with dinner,
with the quiet hum
of routine,
the sound of knives
on cutting boards,
the sizzling of oil
as it meets the pan,
and his voice,
soft, but distant,
a melody she’s forgotten
how to hum along with.

She smiles
when he enters,
his tired eyes
meeting hers,
but his gaze
lingers on something
she can’t see.
He touches her,
the way he always has,
but the warmth is different,
something that doesn’t
quite reach his fingertips
anymore.

She wonders why
he stays out later
than he says,
why his lips are always
slightly curled
in a secret he won’t share,
why his phone
has a new kind of ring
that pulls him away from her,
so quietly
she almost doesn’t notice.

His jacket always smells
of something new—
a perfume,
a place
she’s never been.
But she doesn’t ask,
too wrapped in the quiet trust
that’s been built
over years,
years of careful words
and soft glances.

She doesn’t know
that he’s lying
through the cracks
in his words,
those little pauses
where the truth hides
beneath his breath,
clinging to his ribs
like a ghost.

Her laughter rings
in the kitchen,
innocent and warm,
unaware
that his thoughts
are already somewhere else,
someone else.
Her fingers stir the stew,
her mind lost in the simplicity
of their life together.
But his mind
is tracing paths
she doesn’t know,
to a place he never mentions.

She doesn’t know
how easy it is for him
to slip out of the bed
before she wakes,
the sheets cold
on the side he leaves empty.

She doesn’t see
how his smile
has faded
to something more practiced,
a mask
he wears well
but doesn’t feel.

And when he touches her,
his lips on her neck,
his arms around her waist,
she has no idea
he is already
somewhere else,
someone else.
The warmth he once gave her
is no longer his to share—
it’s been borrowed
by another woman’s hands.

The quiet between them
grows longer,
a river flowing in the space
they once filled with words.
Her trust is the riverbank,
steady and firm,
but she can’t see
how the waters of betrayal
are slowly eroding it,
bit by bit.

She doesn’t know
that she’s holding on to something
that’s already slipping through her fingers.
She doesn’t know
that his love for her
has already faded
into the past,
an echo
of what once was.

But she still waits
for him to come home,
the door opening and closing,
her heart
tender with the hope
that nothing has changed.
Her hands continue
to stir the stew,
her smile the same,
unaware
that the silence between them
is louder
than the words
he’s never said.