By Sunday night I assumed the silence was punishment. Cold shoulder. The kind of passive retaliation I'd seen him do twice before over dumb fights — once about Thanksgiving plans, once about something his sister said about my hair. I waited him out both times. This felt the same. Except Monday he left for work before I woke up. Tuesday he came home past midnight and slept in the guest room. Wednesday he was gone before I was even fully awake again, and by Thursday I realized I hadn't heard his voice in six days. I tried. God knows I tried. I apologized, first over text, then in a handwritten note I taped to the bathroom mirror. I told him I was wrong, that the words were cruel, that I didn't actually believe them — which was a lie, but a lie I was prepared to build a marriage on. He read the note. He moved it to the counter. He did not reply. And then on day nine, he packed a bag.