Mark noticed before I was ready to admit it out loud.
It started with the small things. The way his hand would rest lightly on my back, and I'd step forward a moment too soon. The way I smiled when he made a dry comment, but didn't laugh the way I used to. The way I kissed him goodnight—soft, familiar—but pulled away before I let myself lean into the warmth.
I told myself I was imagining the shift. That if I just kept moving, kept working, kept pretending, the weight pressing down on my chest would ease.
It didn't.
He was watching me more carefully now. I felt it in the quiet between conversations. His eyes would linger a second too long, like he was trying to piece together a puzzle that kept rearranging itself.
We were in the office late one evening, the soft hum of the desk lamp the only light in the room. I was reviewing the logistics for the investor dinner next week—highlighting names, updating RSVPS—but the words on the screen blurred.
