What We Don't Say

Elena smoothed her graying hair in the restaurant mirror, remembering how Marcus used to tuck the loose strands behind her ear. That was before — before the miscarriage, before the promotion that turned her into the boss he reported to, before everything between them curdled into polite silence.

"You're staring at your spinach," he said, sliding into the booth across from her. The vitamin supplements in her purse burned like accusations. She'd started taking them after the doctor mentioned egg quality, as if pills could reverse the arithmetic of age.

"I'm not hungry." She pushed the salad away. "Why did you ask me here, Marcus?"

He leaned forward. "Janice in Accounting saw you at the fertility clinic."

The air left the room. Elena had gone alone, unwilling to let him witness this particular failure. "That's none of your business."

"We're still married, Elena."

"On paper."

"You're doing that thing again," he said. "Where you shut down. Like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"Because it always does."

His jaw set — that familiar bull-headed stubbornness that had once felt like devotion. "I talked to my brother about the transfer."

Her stomach twisted. "The one to Chicago?"

"He can pull strings. If we go, clean slate. No one knows us there."

"And what? We just pretend I didn't freeze our assets and apply for separation? Pretend I'm not terrified that you'll resent me if this never works?" She gestured vaguely at her abdomen. "You want kids. I might not be able to — "

"I want you," he said.

Her phone buzzed. A text from her mother: *Your father's having the surgery. Come home.*

Elena stared at Marcus across the table, seeing suddenly how carefully he'd arranged his face. The cunning, fox-like intelligence she'd fallen for years ago, now trained on salvaging something she'd tried to destroy.

"I need to go," she said, standing.

"Elena — "

"I can't do this tonight."

She walked out into the cold, fingers touching the vitamin bottle in her pocket. Some days, she thought, you didn't get to choose which parts of your life survived. You just learned to carry the weight.