Emma isn’t angry when she wakes.
Not at first.
Emma woke to silence.
Soft morning light spilled through the curtains, washing the bedroom in pale gold. The digital clock on the nightstand read 7:18.
Saturday.
She pushed herself upright and sat on the edge of the bed, letting her feet rest against the cool hardwood floor.
Behind her, Mark slept peacefully.
One arm stretched across the mattress. His breathing was slow, steady. A strand of hair had fallen across his forehead.
For a moment…
She simply watched him.
She remembered lazy Saturday mornings when they’d stay in bed until noon, laughing about nothing important. Coffee in oversized mugs. His arm around her waist while they watched rain race down the windows.
She remembered dancing barefoot in the kitchen because a song came on that neither of them liked but both of them pretended to love.
She remembered road trips with the windows down.
Movie nights.
The way he’d squeeze her hand without thinking.
The way he’d look at her like she was the only person in the room.
Her lips almost smiled.
Maybe today…
Maybe today could be one of those mornings again.
She imagined climbing back into bed beside him.
Wrapping her arms around him.
Just existing together.
No arguments.
No tension.
No counting.
Then…
One.
Her eyes drifted toward the bedroom door.
It was open.
Not wide.
Just enough.
Two.
The bathroom light leaked into the hallway.
He’d forgotten to turn it off before bed.
Again.
Three.
His jeans from yesterday rested on the chair instead of hanging in the closet.
Four.
His belt dangled halfway to the floor.
Five.
One sock.
The other one…
Next to the hamper.
Not in it.
Her chest tightened.
No…
Not now.
Please…
She looked back at Mark, willing herself to remember the man she loved instead of the trail he left behind him.
Remember the hugs.
Remember the laughter.
Remember the first kiss.
Six.
The cabinet.
The kitchen cabinet.
She hadn’t even gone downstairs yet.
But she knew.
She knew it would be open.
She could see it in her mind as clearly as if she were standing in front of it.
Seven.
Her heartbeat answered.
Seven.
Eight.
Eight.
Nine.
Nine.
The memories began to fade, dissolving beneath the rhythm.
Their honeymoon disappeared.
His laugh disappeared.
The nights they fell asleep holding each other disappeared.
Only the numbers remained.
Ten.
Eleven.
Twelve.
She closed her eyes.
“I don’t want to count.”
The words barely escaped her lips.
Behind her, Mark stirred.
“Morning,” he mumbled with a sleepy smile.
Emma turned toward him.
She smiled back.
It looked real enough.
“Morning.”
He leaned over, kissed her forehead, and stretched.
“You hungry?”
She nodded.
“Yeah.”
He walked out of the bedroom.
She listened.
His footsteps faded down the hallway.
The bathroom light stayed on.
She heard a cabinet door open.
Then another.
Footsteps.
Coffee brewing.
A spoon against a mug.
She counted every sound.
By the time she stood from the bed…
She already knew what she was going to find.
And somehow…
Knowing hurt even more than seeing it.