— Not today, — he replied, — but inside, probably a long time ago.
She picked up the mug again, warming her fingers on the ceramic. Outside the window, a rare May rain was falling, drops tapping on the windowsill like a metronome of someone’s exhausted love.
The next month passed in a strange, almost tangible state, as if time had frozen in indecision.
Olivia remained as attentive and welcoming as always. When friends came over, she joked, laughed, kept the conversations going, filling the house with warmth and lightness, but as soon as the guests left, she plunged into her thoughts.
In the evenings, she sat by the window, gazing at the dark outlines of the trees beyond the glass.
Silence enveloped her like a cloak. She didn’t cry, didn’t complain, just stayed silent, and in that silence there was something deep, almost solemn, as if she were talking to someone invisible.
Alex, meanwhile, increasingly caught himself thinking that he didn’t want to pick up the phone and call the other one; her voice, her endless complaints and whims, which had once seemed cute, now irritated him like persistent noise.
He couldn’t understand when it had started, maybe when she demanded attention again that he no longer wanted to give, or when her calls began to seem unnecessary, like interference on the radio.
And at home? Home was different. Calm, familiar, reliable, as if he had returned to a place where everything was in its place, where he didn’t need to pretend or prove anything.
He started bringing home flowers. Not out of habit, but from some inner impulse. First, modest bunches of daisies, then lush roses, which Olivia had loved in her youth…
She accepted them without extra words, just smiling slightly as she put the flowers in a vase. Her hands moved habitually, but her gaze was different, attentive, deep, as if she wanted to capture every moment.
She cooked his favorite dishes, meat with potatoes like his mom’s in childhood, or that very apple pie he could never refuse….
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