
There is a feeling in the pit of the stomach. It’s been there for weeks, maybe months, maybe even years. It’s a gnawing, anxious sense that something is fundamentally broken. It’s the realization that the person sleeping on the other side of the bed is not the partner needed for the future, but merely a comforting anchor to the past.
Yet, nothing changes. The same arguments happen. The same dull dissatisfaction sets in. The same excuses are made. “It’s just a phase.” “We have too much history.” “I don’t want to be alone.”









