Forty four

Forty four
Fallon
Days passed. Then a week.
And I barely saw my supposed husband.
It was almost impressive—the way Reid managed to disappear without ever technically leaving. The house was massive, sprawling in every direction, but it still felt like a skill. Like he knew exactly how to avoid me without making it obvious.
His side of the mansion stayed quiet. The heavy door to his office remained closed more often than not, and when I passed by, I sometimes caught the low murmur of his voice—clipped conversations that never involved me.
And when I didn’t hear him at all—
The silence was worse.
We fell into a strange rhythm—two people sharing a home without ever really occupying it together.
Reid left early. I’d hear the sound of his footsteps in the hallway before sunrise, the soft click of the front door closing behind him. By the time I finally wandered into the kitchen, his coffee mug was already rinsed and gone, his presence reduced to a faint trace of cologne lingering in the air.
I stayed in my room late, editing content and answering emails. The glow of my laptop became my constant companion, and the comment section on my latest videos felt more familiar than my own husband’s voice.
At night, the pattern repeated. Some nights, I’d hear his steps again—slow and heavy on the marble floors—long after midnight. But by then, I was already curled up in bed, scrolling through social media posts about the fairytale marriage everyone still believed we had.
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
Neither was the ache.
I stopped waiting for him to come looking for me.
In the beginning, there had been hope. A stupid, stubborn hope that maybe Reid would walk into my room and tell me he missed me. That the coldness would crack and something warmer—something real—would slip through.
But hope fades when it goes unanswered long enough.
So I threw myself into work instead.
I filmed videos in the sun-drenched sitting room with its perfect lighting, pretending my heart wasn’t a mess off-camera. I edited late into the night with headphones on, drowning out the silence with upbeat music and the sound of my own voice.
And when people asked about my life—about my marriage—I smiled.
Because the world believed in the version of us I showed them.
The version where I wasn’t sleeping alone in a house too big and too empty.
Mia noticed.
“You sound miserable,” Mia said one afternoon, her voice crackling through the speakerphone.
“I’m not miserable,” I muttered, splicing footage of my latest product review with a little more force than necessary. “I’m busy.”
“You’re deflecting.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m working, Mia.”
“Uh-huh. And how’s Mr. Callahan? You know—the husband you never mention anymore?”
My stomach twisted. “He’s… busy too.”
There was a pause. A long one. And then Mia sighed.
“Oh, Fallon,” she said softly, her tone shifting from teasing to concerned. “You guys haven’t even been married that long. What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I lied.
Because what else could I say?
That my husband felt like a stranger? That when we did speak, it was clipped and careful, like we were afraid of setting off something explosive? That we slept in separate rooms and barely saw each other—and that the distance felt safer, even when it made me lonelier?
That I didn’t know how we got here—and I had no idea how to fix it?
So I kept my voice light. “We’re just busy. It’ll get better.”
But the words felt hollow.
And I wasn’t sure I believed them.
Late one night, I padded down to the kitchen for water. The house was dark and still, the only sound was my bare feet against the cool marble floor.
But his office light was on.
I stopped at the edge of the hallway, my throat tightening as I stared at the closed door. A warm glow spilled from the crack beneath it, soft and inviting. And for a moment, I imagined knocking. Walking in. Asking him why we were like this.
But I already knew what would happen.
Reid would look up, surprised to see me. He’d say something polite. Maybe distracted. And then he’d go right back to work, his attention already slipping away.
Like I wasn’t even there.
So I turned away and left him to his silence.
The next morning, I passed him in the hallway.
It shouldn’t have felt strange, but it did. I hadn’t seen him in three days, and when his eyes met mine, it felt like bumping into someone I used to know.
He slowed, his hand brushing the edge of my arm in a fleeting, absentminded touch. “Morning.”
“Morning,” I echoed.
We stood there, inches apart and worlds away.
And I almost said something.
I almost asked him how he slept, how his trip had gone, why he was working so late every night. I almost asked if he missed me.
But then his phone buzzed in his pocket.
He glanced at the screen, his face smoothing back into that focused mask I knew too well. “I have to take this.”
Of course he did.
“Right,” I said, my voice hollow. “Go ahead.”
He walked away without looking back.
The next night, I heard him come home late. The sound of the front door closing was quiet but unmistakable, and when his footsteps passed my room, I held my breath.
But they kept going.
Straight to his home office. Like all he had done in the company during the day was not enough.
I stared at the ceiling, my chest tight. The ache was becoming familiar—a constant pressure I couldn’t shake. And finally, it became too much.
I got up. The hallway was dim, the light from his office spilling into the dark. I stood in front of the closed door, my hand raised to knock.
But I couldn’t do it. Because if I knocked and he didn’t want me there…
He was uncharacteristically cold, there was no banter between us anymore. I wasn’t sure how much rejection I could take. So I turned around.
And for the first time, I let myself wonder if we’d ever find our way back to normal or it was better with us being awkward around each other.