What do you do when the love you’re in, the partnership you’ve built—it’s starting to feel less like a sanctuary and more like a spreadsheet? A tally of who did the dishes, who initiated sex, who remembered to take the trash out. The silence between you has a weight to it, a texture. It’s the sound of a thousand tiny resentments, a million unvoiced expectations. You look at this person you once crossed oceans for, and now you can barely cross the living room. The magic? It’s not just gone. It feels like it was never there at all. A trick of the light. A story you told yourself. This isn’t a symptom of love’s decay. This is the decay itself. It’s the slow, creeping rot of assumption. The spiritual gangrene of taking a soul for granted. You’ve stopped *seeing* the miracle in front of you and started seeing a roommate who doesn’t do their share. You perform the script of relationship—the anniversary posts, the dutiful kisses goodbye—but your body knows the truth. Your jaw is tight. Your shoulders are clenched up to your ears. Your breath is a shallow, constricted thing. This is the body in a state of