I watched the oil shimmer in the pan tonight, just waiting for the garlic to brown. Two weeks. That’s all that’s left of this particular arrangement. The silence was... thick. Not comfortable, not companionable, just a presence. A third party at the table, I suppose. It felt like an obligation, that silence. Or maybe a courtesy. We’ve had so many quiet dinners. Thousands, probably. Each one a tiny brick in this structure we built. Some of them were good. Genuinely good, full of that specific kind of understanding that only develops over decades. Shared history, you know? A shorthand for everything. And then some of them were like tonight. A performance of normalcy, almost. A pantomime of two people still, technically, together. It’s a strange thing, this agreed-upon ending. A formal separation, in effect, before the actual dissolution. The decision—it wasn't really a decision, more of an inevitable conclusion. A prolonged decline, really. A slow, gentle erosion of… something vital. Not love, perhaps, but certainly attachment. And habit. So much of it was habit. The economic realities also played their part, of course. My fluctuating income, those gig-economy fluctuations, always a factor. Always the undercurrent of ‘will this last?’. The stress response, I call it. My own little diagnostic. It wears on you, that constant low-level vigilance. For both of us, I think. There was a moment tonight, when I reached for the salt, and my hand brushed against theirs. A fleeting contact. No spark. No recoil, either. Just… nothing. A neutral stimulus. And I thought, 'this is it.' This is the end-state of a certain kind of relationship. Not explosive, not dramatic. Just... a quiet cessation of function. Like an old engine finally running out of fuel. It’s sad, yes. A deep, persistent ache. But also, a kind of peace. A low-grade resignation. Two weeks. And then a new kind of silence. I wonder what that will sound like.