It’s 2 AM again. Can’t sleep. Been like this for… a while now. Years? Dunno. Just staring at the ceiling. Or the phone screen. Remember the first time I noticed it. We were in the garden. My garden, mostly. Hers too, I guess. We were planting those petunias, the purple ones she likes. Sun was warm. Dirt under my nails. Good feeling, you know? The smell of the earth, fresh and alive. She bent over to get a trowel, her back to me. And I just… watched her. Noticed the grey coming in around her temples. The way her shirt pulled a little at her waist. And I just felt… nothing. No flutter. No catch in my throat. Just… observation. Like I was watching a stranger plant flowers. And that feeling, it hit me. Like a punch to the gut. We’ve been married for thirty-five years. THIRTY-FIVE. Raised two kids. Bought this house. Paid it off, mostly. My back aches these days, kneeling in client’s yards. My knees crack. My hands are rough. But that’s what I do. I make things grow. It’s honest work. But the money… sometimes it’s good. Sometimes it’s not. Feast or famine, you know? Always hustling. Always wondering if this last job is the last job. We used to have… more. More laughter. More touching. More of… everything. I remember her hair, dark brown, falling over her face when we were young. Her laugh, like wind chimes. And the way she’d look at me. Like I was the only man in the world. Now… it’s routine. Like clockwork. We eat dinner. We watch TV. We talk about the kids. The bills. The weeds in the front yard. But it’s all… surface. I tried to talk to her, once. Not directly. Just… fishing. I said, "Remember that trip to the coast? When we stayed in that little cabin?" And she just said, "Oh, that was nice. The kids loved the beach." And she went back to her crossword. Like it meant nothing. Like it was just a memory. Not *our* memory. Not the memory of us, tangled up in cheap motel sheets, the sound of the ocean outside. Is this what it is? Is this what you get after so long? Just… comfort? A shared history? A quiet presence? Is that enough? For another thirty years? Because if I live that long, if my back holds out, if the clients keep calling… that’s another thirty years. Of this. Of feeling like I’m living with a really good friend. A roommate. Someone I care about deeply, yes. Someone I’d protect. Someone I’d never want to hurt. But not… not like that. Not like I used to. I see other couples. Younger ones, yes. But older ones too. Holding hands in the grocery store. Laughing together, really laughing. And I wonder. What do they have that we don’t? Or is it just a show? A facade? And are we just better at hiding it? Pretending? And then the guilt. It washes over me. Like a cold wave. She’s a good woman. A really, really good woman. She deserves… everything. She deserves someone who looks at her like she’s the only one. And I don’t. Not anymore. And that’s on me. It has to be. What do I do? Nothing. I do nothing. I keep planting. I keep weeding. I keep coming home. And I keep pretending. Keep saying "I love you" at night, even though it feels like a habit. A reflex. Not a roar. Not a whisper. Just… words. I don’t want to hurt her. That’s the thing. That’s the big thing. She relies on me. We rely on each other. It’s a partnership. A business. A… life. But is it *my* life? Is it the life I signed up for, way back when? When the world felt like it was made of possibilities. And she felt like the biggest one. Maybe everyone feels this way. Maybe this is just… life. The quiet ending. The slow fade. And I just have to accept it. Keep going. Keep planting. Keep pushing through. Until the last job. The last sunset. The last breath. And then what? Just… dust. And a garden full of memories. And a quiet regret that I let it all… just happen. Without a spark. Without a fire. Just… warm embers. Or maybe not even warm anymore. Just cold ash.