The chill in the air of our expensive Manhattan apartment mirrored the coldness that had settled between Edward and me. Five years of marriage, and yet, the space beside me in bed felt as vast and empty as the promises we'd once made. Our love, once a vibrant flame, had dwindled to embers, leaving behind only the ghost of what we'd been.

He stirred, the blanket pooling at his feet, leaving his broad back exposed. "Would you like to join me in the shower?" he asked, his voice devoid of the tenderness it once held.

"No, I'm still not feeling my legs," I lied, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. It was a flimsy excuse, one of many I'd concocted to avoid the hollow intimacy that had become our norm.

He shrugged, a dismissive gesture that spoke volumes, and disappeared into the bathroom. I watched the door click shut, a hollow ache blooming in my chest. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint rush of water.

Quickly, I dressed, my fingers fumbling with buttons. My laptop hummed to life, its screen a bright, stark contrast to the dim room. My search history was a testament to my desperation: 'Is marriage without love still worth keeping?' 'How do couples stay married?' Each question a desperate plea for an answer that felt increasingly out of reach.