Linda sat on the edge of the sofa, the quiet hum of the washing machine accompanying her thoughts. Evening dragged on, as it had for the past two years.

David would come home soon, barely acknowledge her, eat silently—if at all—and retreat to his laptop. Conversations had been replaced by tired dismissals: “I’m tired, let’s talk later.”

Once, their nights were filled with chatter, shared meals, laughter. He used to notice her, touch her back softly as they walked. Now, even with music in the background, silence ruled.

The door unlocked. David entered, adjusting his sleeves.

“Tomorrow’s dinner is at my parents’. My mom asked you not to wear that.” He gestured vaguely at her old cardigan. “You do understand how it looks?”

She said nothing.

“How what?” she asked.

“As if I can’t buy you decent clothes.”

Words formed in her mind, sharp ones, but she only nodded.

“Alright.”

The next morning, she wore a dress from deep in the closet. David noticed but said nothing.

At his parents’ house, Linda felt invisible, surrounded by photos of David’s achievements—none of them including her.

“Oh, Linda, finally wearing something proper,” his mother remarked.

At dinner, his sister asked, “Still working at that small office? With a husband like him, you don’t need to count pennies.”

“I like it there,” Linda replied.

“Well, if you’re fine being a gray mouse…”

David didn’t defend her. Then, casually, without looking up, he said,

“You’re nothing but empty space to me.”

Silence followed, but no one seemed surprised.

She stood, placed her cutlery down.

“Where are you going?” David asked.

“Home.”

“We haven’t finished dinner.”

“For an empty space, dinner is over.”

She left, walking through the city, numb to the lights and noise. Somehow, she found herself at her aunt’s apartment—the only place that ever felt safe.

“Linda?” her aunt asked at the door. “What happened?”

She didn’t answer.

“You want to come in?”

Linda nodded.

The next morning, without a word, she left.