Parallel

We stopped arguing

in the third winter.

Not because we agreed,

but because the walls were thin

and the neighbors had begun

to lower their voices

when we passed.

Silence moved in quietly,

set its shoes by the door,

learned the rhythm of our mornings.

You brushed your teeth

while I boiled water.

You checked the weather

though you never adjusted your coat.

In the evenings, we occupied

parallel halves of the couch—

a diplomacy of cushions,

a treaty signed in fabric.

I learned the weight of your breathing

from across the room.

The pause before you spoke.

The way your sentences

stopped arriving whole.

The Wi-Fi router resets automatically at 3:17 a.m.

Sometimes I woke

to the small blue light blinking

in the corner,

and for a moment believed

something was trying again.

We began thanking each other

for ordinary things.

For passing salt.

For locking doors.

For remembering milk.

Gratitude,

like mold,

thrives in damp rooms.

One night you folded my laundry

with too much precision—

corners aligned, seams flattened,

as if preparing evidence.

I stood at the sink,

hands submerged in warm water,

and realized we had not touched

in eleven days.

Not accidentally.

Not even by mistake.

The apartment did not shrink

or protest.

It simply adjusted.

When you left for work each morning,

you paused at the door

just long enough

to make departure look intentional.

I never asked

if you were waiting

for me to stop you.

Outside, traffic continued

with or without us.

Inside, the kettle whistled

at exactly the same pitch.

We have perfected

the art of shared space.

But sometimes at night,

when the router blinks

and the room briefly darkens,

I feel the fragile pulse

of something still connected—

not speaking,

not reaching,

just present in the circuitry,

waiting to see

which one of us

will unplug it first.