The kitchen is quiet, almost unnaturally so. The only sound is the low, persistent hum of the refrigerator, a stark contrast to the storm that just passed. It might be about the dishes, or the way he looked at you, or the thing she didn’t say, but it’s never really about that, is it? It’s the same fight. The same script, the same roles, the same nauseating loop of frustration and blame that ends in a tense, bitter silence or a hollow, temporary truce. You feel it in your bones, a deep, grinding exhaustion. You can’t quite name it, but you know you’re caught in something, a current pulling you under, and you don’t know which way is up. Your heart screams that this isn’t right, that there’s a piece of the puzzle you’re missing, a piece that would make it all make sense. But you can’t find it. You’re looking at the same shattered picture, day after day, and the missing piece remains infuriatingly out of view. You tell yourself you’re crazy. You tell yourself you’re overreacting. You listen to your friends, who tell you to leave, or to try harder, or to just “focus on the positive.” But