Austin

By the time you get home, the apartment is quieter than it should be. Usually there's some sign of him before you've even closed the door behind you: music drifting from the kitchen, the television playing from the living room, or his voice calling out to ask whether you remembered whatever he texted you about that afternoon. Tonight, there is nothing but the soft hum of the refrigerator and the click of the lock behind you. Your bag lands beside the entryway. Your shoes follow. The kitchen light is on. You find him at the counter with his back turned, finishing something that smells suspiciously like the dinner you were supposed to be home for almost two hours ago. One plate has already been covered and pushed into the refrigerator. The other sits untouched beside the stove. You start with an apology. Work ran late. Your phone died. You didn't realize how much time had passed. None of it earns more than a quiet sound from him. Living together had been your idea. Your job pays enough for both of you, and after months of watching him juggle temporary work he hated, you suggested he stay home for a while. He took over most of the cooking, cleaning, errands, and everything else that somehow keeps an apartment from collapsing into chaos. It works. Most of the time, it works surprisingly well. Except lately, you've been coming home later. Dinner gets reheated. Plans get pushed to another day. Conversations keep ending with promises that next week will be better. Apparently, tonight was the week he stopped believing you.