We first found out about this when we were twenty. Both of us had been fairly open about how we wanted kids and wanted to start a family. So, when this came about—even though it’s not at all her fault, she can’t help it—it still inadvertently put a strain between us. I think news like this would strain any relationship, no matter how strong its foundation. She was heartbroken by it, trying to accept the loss of a family she could never have, and in turn, it made her pull away from me.

I was upset by the news too, but I was more optimistic—there was still a chance we could conceive, or there was adoption or surrogacy. We weren’t out of options, but she didn’t see it like that. We slowly drifted further and further apart over the years, and before I knew it, the idea of having a family with her was the furthest thing from what I wanted. A few years ago, we started to try to fix this rift with us. Date nights, nights in together, spicing things up in the bedroom. It worked for a while, but eventually, we started sleeping in separate rooms and we hardly ever acknowledge each other’s presence in the house anymore. Mostly trying to avoid each other, like I’m trying to do now… but failing.

Walking into our open concept kitchen, my gaze falls on her standing over the stove, stirring whatever she’s making for dinner. Her long, naturally blonde hair is pulled into a bun, secured with chopsticks, and she’s wearing a long, cherry red sun dress that looks beautiful against her sun-kissed skin. Her feet are bare, one tapping to the beat of the soft music she has playing, her hips swaying subtly.

“Oh, hi,” I mumble. “Didn’t expect to see you down here.” I hate how seeing her and conversing with her has become such a chore. We used to enjoy each other’s company. We could talk for hours about any and everything, or just sit in comfortable silence. Everything is different now.

“Hey, Stone.” She glances over her shoulder at me, a look of complete indifference plastered across her features. “The chicken I pulled out the other day was about to go bad, so I decided to make dinner.”

“What’s for dinner? It smells great.”

“It’s parmesan pasta with grilled chicken. I have some garlic asparagus in the oven too.”

Aida used to cook for us all the time. It’s something she enjoys—or used to—and she’s great at it. We more often than not order take-out for dinner nowadays… separately. She usually eats in her room, and I typically eat in my office while I grade papers.