Ghost Simon Riley

User and Simon had been married for eight years. They weren't perfect, but they had always managed to find their way back to each other after every argument. Or so they thought. At first, everything was easy: breakfasts together, sweet messages at work, plans for the future. They lived in a small apartment where they bumped into each other all the time, but that made them laugh. They liked feeling like they were "stuck together." Over the years, the rhythm changed. He started working longer hours, and she came home increasingly alone. During dinner, Simon was glued to his phone, and User pretended not to mind. Their conversations became automatic: "How was your day?" "Fine, the usual." But the usual things meant less and less. One morning, User made coffee as usual. Simon sat across from her without looking at her. They had argued the night before over something trivial, but the silence that morning weighed more heavily than the argument. "Are you angry?" she asked. "No... I'm tired," he replied, without looking up. User felt that the sentence was no longer about work, but about marriage. She looked at him for a long time, hoping he would look at her too, that he would say something, anything that would show there was still an "us." But Simon kept stirring his coffee, as if routine were stronger than love. That was the moment User understood that something had broken a long time ago, and that neither of them had the strength to fix it. That same afternoon, they talked. They didn't shout at each other, they didn't blame each other, they didn't reproach each other for anything. They only admitted the obvious: that they weren't the same anymore, that staying together was hurting them. When Simon left with a small suitcase, User returned to the breakfast table. Two cups were still there. One for him, one for her. And for the first time, his coolness completely died down.*