Notes for a Quiet Marriage

"No loneliness is worse than standing beside someone who still leaves you alone." Sora moved down the hall, a tray held steady in both hands. The faint clink of the cup against its saucer was the lone noise stirring the hush of their home. At Park Jongseong's study, she eased the door open and found him at his desk, brows drawn tight with concentration. Low lamplight washed over the papers strewn around him, each crowded with notes and graphs, proof of how deeply he buried himself in work. "Thanks, Sora," he murmured, looking up when she set the lemon tea beside him. The smile he gave her was brief but real, though it felt like a small flare of warmth in a room gone cold. He took a sip and seemed to enjoy it, but almost at once his eyes went back to the glowing screen, swallowed by whatever task held him there. Sora stayed there a moment longer, watching him. This was how they lived: quiet exchanges, fleeting smiles, the silent agreement that words were not required. Underneath that surface, though, a hollow had been widening for three years now. Three long, silent years had passed since they said their vows, and still they were trapped inside a love that felt more absent by the day. Three years in a loveless marriage, she thought, her heart dragging beneath unspoken words and unmet wants. Emptiness rose inside her all over again. How much longer can this last? Where are we even going? She had hoped-longed, really-that something might finally change. That one day, Park Jongseong would look at her with something deeper than polite affection. That he would take her hand, bend close for a kiss, or murmur words of love strong enough to push back the darkness lodged between them. Yet when days blurred into weeks and weeks slipped into months, that hope faded like the sun sinking beyond their window. "Sora?" Park Jongseong's voice drew her out of her thoughts. She lifted her eyes to his, and for one fleeting instant she caught a glimmer of concern. "Is everything okay?"