Later that night, after he had fallen asleep, Lilian lay awake staring at the ceiling. The moonlight crept across the walls like a thief. Every few minutes, she glanced at Ken beside her, just to make sure he was real — and every time she looked, something inside her whispered that the man sleeping there was not the same man she had married. His face was the same. His breathing, his body, his voice — all familiar. Yet something beneath those things had shifted, like the earth under an old house.
At 2:13 a.m., she woke suddenly to the sound of her name. “Lilian.” Her eyes flew open. Ken was lying beside her, eyes wide open, staring straight at her. “What is it?” she asked, her voice barely audible. He didn’t blink. “Do you ever think about dying together?”
The question cut through the dark like a blade. “What?” “Like in movies,” he said, his tone calm, detached. “Couples who can’t live without each other. You ever think about that?” Lilian’s throat tightened. “No. I don’t.” Ken smiled faintly, eyes still fixed on hers. “Maybe you should.” He turned over and fell silent. Within moments, his breathing slowed again, deep and steady, as though he’d already forgotten what he’d said. Lilian didn’t sleep the rest of the night.
In the morning, she made coffee and watched him from across the kitchen. He looked normal — humming softly as he read the newspaper, sipping from his favorite mug. But when she looked closer, she saw small differences: the way he avoided her eyes, the way his hand trembled slightly when he reached for the spoon, the way he smiled too quickly at nothing.
“Ken,” she said quietly, “where did you go?” He didn’t look up. “Nowhere far.” “That’s not an answer.” He set the paper down slowly. “Does it matter?” “It does to me.” He met her gaze for the first time that morning, his expression unreadable. “Then stop asking.” She stared at him, her chest tightening. Something was unraveling, though she couldn’t yet tell if it was him or her.
That night, she found a perfume scent on his shirt — not hers. Not the woody cologne from before. This was sweeter, floral, unfamiliar. She said nothing. She only folded the shirt neatly and placed it on his side of the bed, as though she were folding away evidence.
At midnight, she woke again — to movement. A shadow passed across the doorway, slow and deliberate. “Ken?” The figure stopped. She reached for the lamp, but it wouldn’t turn on. The bulb flickered once, then went dark. “Ken?” she said again, louder. From the darkness, his voice answered. “Go back to sleep.” The tone was different — flat, cold, almost not his.
She lay back down slowly, pretending to sleep. But her heart pounded against her ribs, each beat louder than the last. She could feel his presence standing beside the bed, just watching her. After a few minutes, the floorboards creaked, and the shadow moved away.
When she finally gathered the courage to turn on her phone’s flashlight, the room was empty. The door was open, swinging slightly. She lay awake till dawn, too frightened to close her eyes. By morning, Ken was gone again. No note this time. No text. Only the faint scent of perfume still clinging to the pillow — and the wedding photo lying face down on the nightstand.
At 2:13 a.m., she woke suddenly to the sound of her name. “Lilian.” Her eyes flew open. Ken was lying beside her, eyes wide open, staring straight at her. “What is it?” she asked, her voice barely audible. He didn’t blink. “Do you ever think about dying together?”
The question cut through the dark like a blade. “What?” “Like in movies,” he said, his tone calm, detached. “Couples who can’t live without each other. You ever think about that?” Lilian’s throat tightened. “No. I don’t.” Ken smiled faintly, eyes still fixed on hers. “Maybe you should.” He turned over and fell silent. Within moments, his breathing slowed again, deep and steady, as though he’d already forgotten what he’d said. Lilian didn’t sleep the rest of the night.
In the morning, she made coffee and watched him from across the kitchen. He looked normal — humming softly as he read the newspaper, sipping from his favorite mug. But when she looked closer, she saw small differences: the way he avoided her eyes, the way his hand trembled slightly when he reached for the spoon, the way he smiled too quickly at nothing.
“Ken,” she said quietly, “where did you go?” He didn’t look up. “Nowhere far.” “That’s not an answer.” He set the paper down slowly. “Does it matter?” “It does to me.” He met her gaze for the first time that morning, his expression unreadable. “Then stop asking.” She stared at him, her chest tightening. Something was unraveling, though she couldn’t yet tell if it was him or her.
That night, she found a perfume scent on his shirt — not hers. Not the woody cologne from before. This was sweeter, floral, unfamiliar. She said nothing. She only folded the shirt neatly and placed it on his side of the bed, as though she were folding away evidence.
At midnight, she woke again — to movement. A shadow passed across the doorway, slow and deliberate. “Ken?” The figure stopped. She reached for the lamp, but it wouldn’t turn on. The bulb flickered once, then went dark. “Ken?” she said again, louder. From the darkness, his voice answered. “Go back to sleep.” The tone was different — flat, cold, almost not his.
She lay back down slowly, pretending to sleep. But her heart pounded against her ribs, each beat louder than the last. She could feel his presence standing beside the bed, just watching her. After a few minutes, the floorboards creaked, and the shadow moved away.
When she finally gathered the courage to turn on her phone’s flashlight, the room was empty. The door was open, swinging slightly. She lay awake till dawn, too frightened to close her eyes. By morning, Ken was gone again. No note this time. No text. Only the faint scent of perfume still clinging to the pillow — and the wedding photo lying face down on the nightstand.
