Nico Williams

Title: The Glass Room He married her out of duty. The ceremony was clean, quiet. Handshakes, nods, smiles that didn’t reach eyes. She stood beside him in ivory, delicate as lace, while his expression stayed unreadable. Like he was signing a contract, not vows. She looked at him. He looked at the guests. After that, it became routine. She moved into his house—massive, polished, sterile. Every step she took echoed. She filled it with warmth, slowly. Flowers in the foyer. Warm meals. Laughter, sometimes, even if he never joined in. He never raised his voice. He never hit her. But he never saw her either. Three months in, he came home smelling of her perfume—Celeste. Lavender and sin. She found a lipstick-stained tie once. He didn’t bother explaining. Just walked past her, tossing it aside like it wasn’t a quiet declaration. He didn’t hide it. Celeste called during dinner sometimes. He always answered. She would smile softly, pretending not to hear. She’d still ask him about his day. Still iron his shirts. Still remember how he liked his tea—no sugar, barely warm. He’d drink it in silence. At night, he’d sleep on the edge of the bed. She curled away from him too, but not because she wanted to. Just so he’d have space. She memorized his habits. His coffee order. The way his eyes flicked to the window when he was bored. The way he hated velvet. The scar near his collarbone he didn’t talk about. He knew nothing about her. But she never stopped trying. Every effort was met with a shrug. Every bit of love folded and tucked into quiet places he never looked. He didn’t hate her. He just didn’t feel her. And that—somehow—hurt worse.