The Unspoken Glow

Leo shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, the cheap fabric of his jacket doing little against the damp chill creeping up his arms. The rain, a steady drizzle for an hour now, had turned the street into a dark, shimmering mirror. Headlights smeared into halos. Neon signs—the angry red of the bar down the block, the sickly green of the pharmacy, the stuttering blue of the laundromat across the street—bled into the puddles, distorting, elongating. Each reflection a broken promise, felt like. His breath plumed in front of him, thin and fleeting.

Clara walked a pace ahead, her shoulders hunched. Not from the cold, he knew. From him. From the silence that had grown between them like mold in a forgotten coffee cup, thick and bitter. They'd been driving, just driving, after the dinner that wasn't really dinner, just picking at cold pasta, and then the words, low and sharp, like shards of glass. "Do you even see me anymore, Leo?" she'd asked, her voice cracking. He hadn't answered, just gripped the steering wheel tighter. Now, she was walking, and he was following, a pattern they knew too well.

Twenty-seven years. It used to be a different kind of rain, different kind of nights. Back when they’d laugh, drenched, running for cover. Back when a late-night walk meant something adventurous, something shared. Not this. This felt like a slow bleed, every drop of rain another little cut, eroding what was left. He remembered her hands, warm and quick, pulling him into dance in their tiny first apartment, the cheap radio blasting some awful 80s pop. Now, her hands were usually folded tight across her chest, a shield.

It wasn't even one thing. That was the real killer. No grand betrayal, no dramatic blow-up. Just a thousand little things. The way he’d forgotten their anniversary two months ago, not even a card, just a mumbled "oh right" when she'd brought it up. The way she’d started leaving passive-aggressive notes on the fridge instead of just talking to him. The way they both just existed in the same space, sharing utilities, sharing a bed, but not really sharing anything else that mattered. The kids were gone, out of the house, living their own messy lives, and suddenly the glue was gone too. Just two strangers in a quiet house.

She stopped under the awning of a closed bookstore, hugging herself. Her head dipped. He watched the rainwater stream from the edge of the awning, hitting the pavement with a rhythmic plink-plink. He could see the faint glow of a streetlight catching a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. He hated that. Hated seeing her cry, hated knowing he was the cause. But moving felt like pushing through concrete. What could he even say? "I'm sorry"? For what? For everything? For nothing?

The red neon sign of the bar across the street flickered, a faulty tube, turning the puddle beneath it from solid crimson to patchy orange, then back again. Like a wounded heart, he thought, trying to beat itself steady. He thought about that old joke, "marriage is like a deck of cards, you start with two hearts and a diamond, and end up with a club and a spade." Not really funny now. Just true.

He shuffled closer, close enough that he could smell the faint scent of her shampoo, something floral and clean, still familiar after all these years. He saw the faint lines around her eyes, the ones that crinkled when she used to laugh, really laugh, at his terrible jokes. Now they looked etched with something heavier. He wanted to reach out, just touch her arm, but his hand felt like a brick.

"We can't keep doing this," she said, her voice barely a whisper, hoarse from the earlier argument. She didn't look at him. Just stared at the slick street, the blurry reflections.

"I know," he managed, the words scraping his throat. It felt pathetic, inadequate.

"So what then, Leo? What do we do?" She finally turned, her eyes red, but fierce. The neon green from the pharmacy sign across the street cast a strange, almost alien glow on her face, making her look younger and older all at once.

He didn't have an answer. That was the problem. He wanted to say, *I'm scared*. He wanted to say, *I don't know who I am without you, even if I act like I do.* He wanted to say, *I miss us.* But the words got stuck, a knot in his chest. His father had never talked about feelings. His mother had just cried in the kitchen. He learned silence. Silence was safe. Until it wasn't.

He took a hesitant step closer. The rain picked up a little, heavier drops hitting the awning, the street. One dropped onto his forehead, cold. He reached out, slowly, his hand hovering for a second, then he gently took her hand. Her fingers were cold, stiff at first, then she squeezed his. Not a passionate squeeze, not even a comforting one, just a firm, real pressure. A recognition.

"I don't know," he said, looking at their joined hands, the way the orange and green neon light from the puddles below caught the faint sparkle of her wedding ring. "But maybe we could start by not walking away." He looked up, met her gaze, held it. The rain kept falling.