The argument began the way so many do—with something small, almost insignificant.

But as the evening wore on, one sharp remark led to another, and soon the space between us felt thick with things we hadn’t meant to say but couldn’t take back.

By the time night settled in, we both knew we needed distance. Not as punishment—just as a pause. We agreed to sleep in separate rooms, hoping time and quiet might soften the edges of our frustration.

I lay alone in the guest room, the lights off, staring into the darkness. Sleep refused to come. My mind replayed the argument over and over—every raised voice, every look that carried more meaning than words. I told myself to breathe, to let it go, but the silence only made the thoughts louder.

Sometime later, the door creaked open.