A/N: Everything is in one consistent POV, it doesn't switch off between the "---". They're just event separators.

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It’s 11 o’clock and the seething sun hovers high above the horizon, its penetrating rays seeping through wooden blinds to expose the faint glimmer of drying tears.

Today, I watched her sleep as I used to when we were younger, a little naive, and much deeper in love. Seemingly peaceful, her slumbering expression is an ethereal masterpiece but I know deep down she’s plagued by her darkest demon.

Me.

I’m the reason she’s crying in her sleep like that. Silent tears continued to fall through lidded eyes like steady streams during the calm of the storm and for once, I noticed them and felt my heart break in two.

I wanted to reach out to her, to comfort her, but I knew I couldn't. It’s just not the same anymore. I can never touch her the way I used to.

---

It’s noon and finally, she wakes up though later than usual.

She missed work. Again. She used to be so devoted, dependable and enthusiastic when it came to her career—just as she was with our marriage. But nowadays, it seems she isn’t interested in much.

With a light groan, I watched her wipe the tears away as she dragged herself to the bathroom without so much as a glance in my direction. I bowed my head in somber disappointment. What was I expecting?

Gone are the days I woke up to her angelic face, unspoken love filling the voids of her tired eyes as she faintly smiled at me.

I should’ve taken the time to appreciate them more. I should’ve taken the time to appreciate her more. It’s too late now.
 

--

Sitting down in front of a large mirror, she mindlessly brushes her long brown locks with a vacant expression. Orbs once full of life were now a pair of glassy eyes, the depth of those pits a never-ending abyss of black.

I slowly walk towards her yet she pays no heed. She just continues to dully brush the tangled strands in a trance, once soft and smooth between my fingers.

Warily, I sit down beside her and as expected, it does nothing to change her passive demeanor. I wanted to reach out so as to gently pry the brush away from her frail hands, partly to break her out of the cycle and partly to give me an excuse to feel her, no matter how brief. But I retracted before I could touch that soft paling skin of hers in fear of her reaction and so continues the repetitive motion while she stared back at her lonely reflection.

Up, down, up, down...like love on the rocks; like an unstable rollercoaster bound to crash. The silence is deafening and although still in denial, I know we’ve already hit a wall. It took every fiber of my soul to keep myself from encasing her in my arms, to turn back the hands of time and envelope her in the familiar comfort and safety I used to provide.

But not anymore.

Warmth is the last thing she’ll feel from my touch.

Before I could apologize for what’s become of us-- of her-- she walks away, leaving me to sit alone on an empty chair, counting her every step as she left me.

---

Breakfast used to be a noisy but comforting affair, with her perceptive personality and my opinionated nature, there was always much to talk about. From her universal theory of global synergy and my highly-acclaimed diagnosis of her obsession with all things healthy and green, we would playfully bicker for days on end when cruel life permitted it.

But we haven’t spoken in so long…

Breakfast was never the eerie silence that now casts itself like a net of despondency in our once lively kitchen, trapping us in its perpetual reticence.

After fetching endless stacks of depressing mail addressed to Mrs. Irene Kang from co-workers, family and honestly, people she couldn’t care less of or know for that matter, she begins setting up the table, taking out her usual plate along with the matching cups and utensils. Mechanically, she reaches for mine as well. I see her hesitate for a brief second, pondering whether to do it or not before finally submitting to the tempting urge to give in. Old habits never die even when people do.

Now sitting just across from each other on our modest coffee table, we are worlds apart as the usual aroma of her cooking fills the room. There was only stillness between us as she ate. The dull butter knife in her hand would’ve been enough to cut the thick, gloomy atmosphere around us.

I hate it. She looks so lonely and lost. I wanted to apologize. But how can she forgive me?

She can’t; at least not yet, so she just keeps her head low while occasionally throwing glances at my untouched plate.

--

I stopped my wandering when the familiar tune of the grand piano echoes throughout the house. It’s been awhile since she played.

Rooted on the spot, I stood with eyes closed, allowing her sweet voice to entice me as I listened to the slow melody while trying to grasp the bare essence of her hidden emotions. She’s never been the emotionally open type. Even with me, Hyunnie can be a very stubborn, reserved and independent woman; traits I’ve grown to love and hate.

It was that mysterious aura that had me first captivated. Like a walking Rubik’s cube with infinite sides waiting to be solved, I wanted to be the first daring explorer to step foot in unexplored territory, to figure out how she worked, to know her like the back of my hand and to maybe one day, find the hidden treasure buried within.

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