I spend the entire day cleaning up our small three-bedroom, single-story home. Seth had left for work hours ago, and I hadn't even attempted to leave my room to see him off. Not that I didn't want to. But I had a plan, and I needed to be subtle. He was a smart guy. If I suddenly started cooking him breakfast and kissing him goodbye each morning, he'd know that I was up to something.

I can't pamper him. If I did that, I'd be giving in to my own desires instead of focusing on his—as strange as that sounds. The reason? I want to pamper him. I want to make him happy because seeing him happy makes me happy. Unfortunately, he doesn't see it that way. Anytime I've tried to do nice things in the past, he's caught on to the fact that I'm trying to win him back and he pulls away. He told me once that it was because it felt forced and fake.

So, instead, here I am sweeping, mopping, and dusting the entire house. And I'm now hitting that point of exhaustion where I just want to sink beneath the cracks of the wood and disappear forever. The place smells like a honeysuckle garden—fresh and inviting.

I've just stacked the last dish in the cupboard when I hear a car door shut. Odd, because Seth never comes home before dinner. Maybe I should be worried... but I'm not.

To avoid playing the part of a doting wife waiting by the door with eager anticipation for her husband to arrive, I scurry back to my bedroom and plop myself down in front of my laptop. I hear him enter, throw his keys on the dinner table, and flick on the tv. It's hard to tell if anything is wrong. Seth's never been the type to let his temper control him, so if there was something to be worried about—like him losing his job—I'd never know it just based on his behavior.

I can't help but wonder what thoughts are spiraling around in his head. Is he wondering where I am? Does he care? Does he notice how clean the place is? He should... the contrast from earlier is almost shocking. I'm about as tidy as a toddler at a glitter party; it's scientifically impossible for him not to notice the change. But then again, he's a man, and men are half-blind when it comes to observation.

I stay cooped up in my room for another hour before starvation sets in. I haven't decided what I'll do for dinner. I've always cooked dinner for Seth, and then just left his plate in the oven for when he would get home. But, he's actually home this time. An uncharacteristic wave of nerves zaps me into action. I'm not usually nervous, but having my husband breathing down my neck while I prepare his meal doesn't sound appealing.

I trudge my way down the hall, wood planks creaking beneath each step as I make my way to the kitchen. I have to bypass the living room to do so, and I catch Seth's eye for just a moment. I smile and nearly laugh at his sad attempt to mimic my action. It's more like a quick flick of his lip that's supposed to signify a smile, yet it comes off as more of a grimace.

"Hi," I say as I pass.

"Hey," he mutters to my back. I turn slightly to see his eyes still glued to the tv. He couldn't even spare me a glance.

I suddenly have this undeniable desire to run and jump on him. Not in a mad gorilla-woman kind of way, but in an I-want-to-smother-you-with-my-love kinda way. In my imagination, I see his arms circling me as his fingers poke tickles into my stomach. I'm laughing. He's laughing. There's joy and love filling our home. The heavy gloom of disinterest evaporates from the room like magic.

It's strange that emptiness can feel so heavy, but it does. As the dream vanishes from my mind, I'm hit with a sickening hollowness. It nearly buries me beneath its suffocating weight. I just want us to love each other like we used to. I want to be happy. Is that such a difficult request? When did happiness become such a foreign concept for me?

"Are you hungry?" I call from the kitchen, not bothering to look past the counter island where I have a perfect view into the living room. Instead, I begin pulling vegetables out of the fridge, along with a package of frozen minced chicken.

"Sure," he responds, turning his head just enough so his voice carries in my direction, and yet, he still doesn't pull his gaze away from the history channel.

I make quick work of preparing a stir fry dish with a side of mixed veggies, all the while pushing back the sinking feeling in my gut. I refuse to believe that we're over. I will kill myself trying to get us back to the way we were. I love him too much not to try. It's just hard when he doesn't care enough to even acknowledge me when I've entered the room.

I suck in a steadying breath, gaining control over my emotions, and then call him in to grab his dinner. I refuse to take him a plate. He's fully capable of getting off his butt and serving himself. Besides, he'd probably resent me for treating him like a helpless child.

He strides in a minute later and waits silently as he watches me dish food onto my plate. It's hard to breathe when he's so close. Grabbing a glass of water, I sidle past him and into the living room.

This has been our new tradition for some time now. Ever since things started getting bad, we no longer eat in the dining room. It's too awkward. At least if we eat in the living room we can still be together without the tension. I'd rather have that than nothing.

I snatch the remote up and begin flicking through the channels. I settle on some action flick just as he enters the room. He doesn't say anything. Sometimes I wonder if he's going to blow up at me for changing the channel in the middle of his show, but he never does. He always just accepts it, no arguing.

I guess that's what makes us so different from most broken couples. We don't fight. We internalize our problems. Back when we were in love, silence was always a sign that something was wrong. We'd both sizzle with anger in solitude, and then once we'd calm down, we'd talk about it. There were never any exploding fits of rage. We were calm.

But now, we're always calm, and that silence still carries the same dread that it always has. Only now, it's constant.

I can recall the horrible feeling of knowing he was irritated with me and not knowing what to do about it. I'd wait until bedtime, and then when he'd slide in next to me, I'd curl up at his side and ask what was wrong. From there, he'd breathe out a tired sigh and spill all his troubles on me. By the time sleep came, we'd both be exhausted from verbally expressing ourselves and physically making up for it. We haven't physically made up for anything in months now. Actually, it's as if he goes out of his way to avoid touching me. Like he doesn't even want it to be an accident.

It hurts. My heart hurts.

Sometimes I do things with the hope that he'll finally have enough and start screaming at me. At least then I'd get some kind of reaction out of him. Instead, he's just dead. If I didn't know any better, I'd say that he's so unattached to me that I don't even anger him. How did we go from lovers to strangers all while living under the same roof?

I eat in silence, not really paying attention to Keanu Reeves on the screen. I've seen this movie plenty of times before, but even if I hadn't, I wouldn't be paying attention. All I can focus on is the man sitting in the lazy boy to my left. He gave up the couch when I claimed it, even though I'm scooted all the way to the right side.

I choke out a cough-disguised sob. He can't stand me. You don't treat someone the way he treats me unless you despise them. My own husband hates me and it's almost more than I can handle. After seeing the divorce papers in his bag last night, everything is suddenly so much more obvious. My body trembles as I try to shovel another bite into my mouth.

This isn't me.

I'm supposed to be strong. I'm confident and sure of myself. But something about losing the love of the person I adore most has really messed with my self-esteem. I pray that he doesn't destroy me before I reach him—if I ever do.

My phone suddenly vibrates and I pull it from my pocket. A quick glance reveals that it's Steve—my boss—and I quickly type back a response regarding my progress on one of my job assignments. Seth's eyes are on me the entire time, but he remains silent. I refocus back on the TV and a moment later Seth does the same. A commercial begins to play and I take that as my opportunity to escape. I can't handle the tension any longer, or the signals of hatred radiating from his demeanor.

I stand abruptly, actually snagging Seth's attention as I hurry from the room. I place my plate next to the sink and I can feel his eyes on me the entire time. I can just imagine his brows dipped in concern for me, but when I glance up briefly, it's not concern I see on his face—it's confusion.

I don't want to have to walk past him to escape, but I can't hide in the kitchen either. He'd have a perfect view of my breakdown if I stayed in here. So, before my walls can crumple, I casually make my way past the living room, breathing a heavy sigh of relief once I've shut my bedroom door.

I sink to the floor, using the door as a backrest. I try to trap a shudder in my chest, but eventually, it wins. I muffle my cries with the crook of my elbow and pray to God that Seth can't hear me.

Two hours pass, and not once does Seth come check on me. I want to hate him for not caring, but I can't. I just wish I understood what I ever did to make him loath me the way he does. But I refuse to ask because I know it won't work.

Sure, maybe he'd tell me the problem, but then, as soon as I'd try to change my ways, he'd accuse me of being fake. He wants me to figure it out on my own so that it's genuine. But, it seems impossible. The fact that he's so willing to just let our relationship crumple while I try to figure out the problem makes it that much more obvious to me that he doesn't really care what happens. If I figure it out, great. If I don't, it's no skin off his back.

I fall asleep that night alone—like always—eyes puffy with emotion, and throat aching with words I wish I could utter to the man I love. Instead, I just curl up in my cold bed and hope that sleep will care enough about me to hold me through the entire night.

But, it was wishful thinking, because sleep releases its grip on me four hours later. I roll over with a groan, hating that I'm so exhausted and so awake all at the same time. Thirst urges me out of bed and down the hallway. I expect to find Seth sprawled out on the couch like always, but when I peer over the side of the couch, he's not there.

I search the kitchen and the other rooms of our small house, but he's nowhere to be found. That's when panic sets in. All those nights of doubting his ability to cheat on me suddenly smack me in the face. Was it possible that I really didn't know the man that I shared a home with? Would he really murder our relationship entirely by having his needs met by someone else?

I glance at the dining room table to find his keys missing. I run to the window and peer out. As suspected, his car is gone. Horror sinks like a boulder in my gut. This time I don't try to muffle the cries that tear their way from my heart.

I'm breaking and he doesn't even care.