The Morning After

The orange prescription bottle sat between us on the nightstand—her vitamin D supplements, mocking the distance in our bed. Sarah hadn't touched me in three months, not since the diagnosis, though the doctor said it wasn't her fault. The depression had settled like winter frost, slow and silent, until I woke up one morning and realized I was sleeping beside a stranger.

Our old golden retriever, Buster, scratched at the bedroom door, his rhythmic whining the only sound that broke through the heavy silence. I got up, letting him in, and he immediately padded to Sarah's side of the bed, resting his graying muzzle on her pillow. She didn't stir.

"He still knows you," I whispered to her sleeping form, though I wasn't sure if I was trying to convince her or myself.

The argument had started over something stupid—hair in the sink, my clippers leaving evidence of my grooming habits that she found increasingly repulsive. But beneath it lay months of unspoken words: the nights I'd found her crying in the bathroom, the way she'd pull away when I reached for her hand, the medical bills piling up on the kitchen counter like unpaid debts of a life we couldn't afford anymore.

I walked into the kitchen and made coffee, watching the morning light struggle through the fogged windows. On the refrigerator, a polar photograph from our trip to Montana—us standing before a grizzly bear at the refuge, her arms wrapped around my waist, both of us grinning like we'd forever. That was before the vitamins, before the diagnosis, before the winter settled in.

Sarah appeared in the doorway, her hair matted and wild, looking like she'd aged a decade overnight. She reached for the vitamin bottle without meeting my eyes.

"I'm sorry about last night," she said, her voice cracking.

"Me too," I replied, because I was, but not for the reasons she thought.

I loved her still, I realized. But love alone wasn't bearing the weight anymore, and neither of us knew how to ask for help without breaking what remained between us. The dog nosed my hand, and I let the moment stretch, breathing in the quiet that had become our only shared language.