We stopped kissing goodbye. Then we stopped asking each other about our mornings. She no longer said "I love you" with the unthinking warmth she once had; when she remembered to say anything at all, it was a quick "Love you" over her shoulder as she moved toward the door. I told myself that long relationships grew quiet, that devotion changed shape, and that mature love was supposed to be less exciting than the beginning.
The problem was not that our love had become ordinary. The problem was that I had become the only one doing the work required to keep it ordinary in a good way. I could feel it in the unopened mail I sorted alone, the bills I tracked alone, the plans I canceled before she even knew I had made them. I had become the person responsible for anticipating every difficulty, preventing every disagreement, and providing a home that asked as little of her as possible.
On the Friday before the night everything ended, I found an old receipt tucked inside a book. It was from the restaurant where we had celebrated our first anniversary, a place with paper lanterns above the tables and a waiter who had insisted we try a dessert we could not pronounce. Sarah had written a tiny heart beside the total. I stood by the bookshelf holding that receipt and felt an odd rush of grief for two people who were technically still living together.
I decided to cook something special on Sunday. Sarah had mentioned wanting a quiet night earlier in the week, and I thought perhaps if we spent an evening without phones, noise, or expectations, we might finally talk honestly. I bought chicken breasts, fresh basil, tomatoes, and good Parmesan from the grocery store, even though it cost more than the powdered kind. Her grandmother used to make chicken Parmesan on birthdays, and Sarah had told me dozens of times that the smell made her feel at home.
That afternoon I cleaned the apartment. I washed the dishes that had collected beside the sink, folded the blankets on the couch, and set the table with the plates we usually saved for company. I opened the windows to let the kitchen steam out and put a small candle between the place settings. I knew it was a modest effort, but I also knew it was sincere, and at that point sincerity was the only thing I had left to offer.
At seven fifteen, I checked the oven and turned the heat down. At seven twenty-five, I moved the candle a few inches so it would not drip onto the table runner. At seven thirty, the lock turned. I wiped my hands on a towel, took off one oven mitt, and went to the hallway with a smile I had been practicing without realizing it.