I’m sitting here, watching the moon hit the azaleas I spent thirty years perfecting, and it hits me—the quiet despair of a companionate marriage. We were so busy raising kids, making a home, and me staying here while she built her career, that I barely noticed the physical spark just… vanished. It’s not about blame, not really, but I wonder if humans are truly built for thirty more years of this amiable silence, this gentle hand-holding without the ache. Is it enough? Or am I just supposed to quietly tend my garden and pretend this lack isn't a gaping chasm in my chest? I feel selfish even thinking it, after everything, but I *do* wonder.