They sat on opposite ends
of the couch like two
people who had run out
of bridge.
The TV played something
neither of them watched —
a talk show where
everyone laughed too
easily, volume just high
enough to fill the room
without filling it.
She pulled her knees up.
He scrolled his phone,
thumb moving, eyes not
reading.
Neither of them was
angry. That was the part
that made it harder.
Anger at least means the
other person still matters
in a specific, pointed
way. This was just two
people sharing a room,
each one waiting for the
other to go first — not
in speaking, but in
admitting the distance had
become a third person
between them.
Eventually she said,
"I'm going to bed."
He said, "Yeah."
Neither of them moved for
another ten minutes.