Eternal Ephemerals

I am fine

The walk home was suffocating. Addy felt the tension between them like a heavy fog, thick and impossible to escape. Derek's silence was louder than any argument they could've had, each step he took seeming to pull him further away from her. His hands were jammed deep into his coat pockets, his face set in that familiar expression he wore when something was wrong—when everything was wrong—but he didn't want to talk about it.

They had just left a gathering at a friend's house, one of those casual nights that Addy thrived on. She had laughed and chatted, bounced from one conversation to the next, completely at ease. It was what she loved—being surrounded by people, sharing stories, teasing old friends, connecting with new ones. She had been in her element.

But she had felt Derek's mood shift. Even in the middle of the laughter, she'd felt his eyes on her, saw the way his jaw tightened whenever she got too wrapped up in a conversation that didn't include him. He didn't say anything, didn't even really pull her aside or make it obvious, but Addy knew him well enough to recognize that brooding quietness. It clung to him, following them both out of the party and all the way home.

They hadn't spoken since they left. Not a single word. Derek's silence was impenetrable, and Addy's frustration was bubbling just beneath the surface, itching to come out, but she didn't know how to break through to him. She didn't know how to confront something he refused to admit.

The door clicked shut behind them when they got home, and Derek walked straight past her into the bedroom without a word. Addy stood frozen for a moment in the entryway, her heart heavy, her throat tight. She wanted to call after him, ask him what was wrong, ask him why he couldn't just talk to her. But something held her back. Maybe it was fear. Or maybe it was exhaustion—an exhaustion that came from trying, again and again, to understand what was going on in his head, only to be met with the same closed door.

She sighed, her breath catching in the quiet of the apartment, and slowly took off her coat, hanging it neatly on the hook by the door. She knew what would happen next. She knew this routine well. Derek would tell her everything was fine, even though it wasn't. He would shut down, retreat into himself, and they would go to bed like this—her with too much to say and him with nothing to say at all.

It hadn't always been like this.

When they were alone, when it was just the two of them, things were different. Derek was different. He wasn't brooding or distant or full of quiet, unresolved jealousy. He could talk to her, really talk to her, about things that mattered, things that connected them. She loved those moments—their quiet conversations late at night, the way he would open up to her when the world wasn't watching, the way his voice softened when he talked about the things he cared about.

But when they were out in the world, when they were with other people, something shifted. Derek became closed off, his mood darkening as if her outgoing nature became a threat, as if her laughter, her friendliness, made him feel... small. He never said it outright, but she could feel it—the jealousy, the quiet resentment. And she didn't know how to fix it.

Part of her didn't understand why he felt that way at all. He had always known who she was—he had fallen in love with her bubbly, outgoing personality. It wasn't like she was doing anything wrong. She was just being herself. But somehow, that wasn't enough anymore. Or maybe, it was too much.

Addy slowly walked into the bedroom. Derek was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring down at the floor, his hands clasped together in his lap. His posture was rigid, tense, and his silence was a wall she didn't know how to climb.

"Derek?" she asked softly, her voice feeling small in the space between them. "Can we... can we talk about what's bothering you?"

He didn't look up. "There's nothing to talk about," he muttered, his voice flat, unconvincing.

Addy's frustration flared. She could feel the sharp edge of her own emotions pressing against her. She didn't want to fight, didn't want to say something she couldn't take back, but the weight of his silence was too much. Why couldn't he just tell her? Why did he have to make her feel like she was doing something wrong when all she was doing was being herself?

"Derek," she tried again, her tone firmer this time. "I know something's bothering you. You barely said a word all night. Just... talk to me."

He finally looked up at her, and for a brief moment, she saw it—the flicker of something deeper, something raw, just beneath the surface. But then it was gone, replaced by the same tired look he always wore when he was shutting her out.

"I told you," he said, his voice a little sharper now. "I'm fine. It's nothing."

Addy felt a lump rise in her throat, a mix of anger and sadness swirling inside her. She didn't believe him. She couldn't. She had seen the way he had looked at her tonight, seen the jealousy lurking in his eyes when she laughed with their friends, when she lit up the room in a way he never did.

She wanted to ask him why. Why he was so insecure, why her being herself made him feel less. But she didn't know how to say it without making things worse. She didn't want to hurt him, didn't want to turn this into an argument that neither of them could win. But she was tired of pretending everything was okay when it wasn't.

Without another word, Derek stood up and walked over to the bed, pulling back the covers. He lay down, turning his back to her, making it clear that the conversation—if she could even call it that—was over.

Addy stood there for a moment, staring at him, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She felt the urge to shout, to say something that would crack through his wall of silence, to make him talk to her. But the words stuck in her throat. What would it matter, anyway? He had made his choice. He wasn't going to talk.

With a heavy sigh, she crossed the room and got into bed beside him. The silence was thick between them, suffocating. She lay there, staring up at the ceiling, the weight of everything they weren't saying pressing down on her chest.

She loved him. God, she loved him. But right now, she didn't know how to reach him. And she didn't know what to do with the part of herself that felt like she was slowly disappearing in the space between them.

The minutes ticked by, and eventually, Derek's breathing slowed, falling into the steady rhythm of sleep. But Addy was wide awake, her mind racing, her heart heavy with everything that had been left unsaid.

This wasn't the first time they had gone to bed like this—Derek brooding in silence, Addy trapped in her own thoughts. And it wasn't the first time she wondered how long they could keep going like this before something broke. Before she broke.

She turned onto her side, her back to him, the distance between them feeling like an ocean. The bed felt too big, the room too quiet, and sleep felt impossibly far away.

The love was still there. She could feel it, even now. But love didn't seem to be enough to close the gap between them tonight.

And as she lay there in the darkness, staring at the empty space in front of her, Addy realized that the silence wasn't just coming from Derek. It was coming from her, too. Because she was afraid to say the things that needed to be said. Afraid to ask the questions she didn't know how to answer.

They both always chose silence. Afraid of the confrontation.

And tonight, like so many nights before, wasn't peaceful.