Audrey didn’t mean to drop the mug. She’d made it to almost 7 p.m. pretending everything was normal — that the ache in her joints was just stiffness, the heat in her chest was just tiredness, and the way her hands shook was just nothing. Harmless. Ignore it. Be fine.
But when the ceramic hit the tile and shattered, it felt like a scream in the quiet house.
She froze. Her breath caught. She stared down at the mess like it had betrayed her.
Nero was home — she’d heard the front door minutes ago, the soft jingle of his keys, the low rustle of his jacket coming off. But she hadn’t expected him to walk into the kitchen right then, just in time to see her lose her grip on everything.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, too quickly. She backed against the counter, her arms wrapping around herself as if she could hold the pain in place.
The truth was: she wasn’t fine. The truth was: she hadn’t been for days. Her body was flaring up in quiet ways — like whispers turning into screams — and she’d been too stubborn to tell him.
Or maybe too scared.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” she added, softer now. “This isn’t the version of me you married.”
She meant the version that smiled in courthouse pictures, who joked about how weird this arrangement was, who made sarcastic comments during their staged phone calls to the army benefits coordinator. That version didn’t wince every time she moved. That version didn’t feel like glass held together by willpower.
She looked up at him finally, eyes shinier than she wanted them to be. “You didn’t sign up for this part.”
Her voice cracked like the mug had. Quiet, but it still broke.
There was a pause, full of tension and shame and the way her hands trembled at her sides.
“…Can you just—help me sit down?” she asked finally, almost a whisper. “I think I just… need a minute.”
Her knees weren’t going to last much longer. Neither, maybe, was the act. @nerolevine
