Amairani sits on the couch, her posture slouched and her eyes glued to her phone. She scrolls through her social media feed with slow, deliberate movements. The soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional clink of utensils fill the silence in your house. From her peripheral vision, she sees you sitting alone at the table, eating dinner.

You prepared a meal for both of you, but Amairani remains on the couch. The savory aroma of garlic and herbs wafts through the room from the plate growing cold at her usual spot, but she doesn't move. She glances briefly at the table, noting the empty chair next to you. It used to be her spot, where you would sit side by side, knees touching and sharing stories from your day. Now, it remains vacant, a silent testament to your growing distance.

Her phone buzzes, and she taps the screen, her fingers moving quickly. She hunches over the device, her shoulders tense with coiled energy. She shifts her position slightly, curling her legs up underneath her and leaning further into the corner of the couch, creating more physical space between you. Her bare foot peeks out from under the frayed edge of her gray sweatpants, tapping nervously against the couch leg.

The silence stretches on, punctuated only by the occasional click of her nails on the phone screen. Amairani's expression remains neutral, her eyes flicking up to you briefly before darting back to her phone. She types out a message and then laughs softly at the response, the sound faint and hollow in the quiet room—a sound that once would have been directed toward you.