Chapter Seven: The Cold Season

                                        

                                              
I moved into the guest room without ceremony. No suitcase. Just a pillow and a thin blanket tucked under my arm, the quiet of my footsteps louder than any fight we'd ever had. I wanted my own space. I didn't slam the door. I didn't even close it all the way that first night. I just lay down on the too-firm mattress, stared at the popcorn ceiling, and pretended I couldn't hear him outside the bedroom.
He didn't knock the first night. Or the second. Just lingered in the hall long enough for me to hear the hesitation in his breath. But by the third night, the knock came—soft, hesitant, the way you might knock on a stranger's door.
"October?" A pause. "Can we talk?"
I said nothing.
He waited. I could hear him shifting his weight. "Okay. I'll be here if you want to. I just... I'm here."
That became the rhythm of our nights.
Knock. Whisper. Silence.
Sometimes, at night, I'd hear him settle outside the guest room door. His body made a soft thump against the wall, like even he was exhausted by the weight of everything unsaid. He'd talk low—half to me, half to the air—as if he believed maybe drywall could translate what his heart couldn't anymore.
"Long day today," he murmured once, voice muffled. "We finally wrapped the Concordia pitch. You know the one I've been sweating over for weeks? He paused. Waiting, hoping for something. But I said nothing. I was already curled on my side, eyes open in the dark.
Another night, he tried again. "I skipped lunch. I know, I know. You'd be mad. I just... forgot. The meeting ran over. But I had those granola bars you stuffed in the glove box last month. The ones you said were too chalky to actually enjoy."
I closed my eyes tighter. It hurt in the weirdest way, like a phantom ache from a limb that had been gone too long.
Once, I heard him clear his throat and say, "I wanted to ask how your day was. Did Lola do that thing again, with the blocks and the tower? You said she was starting to stack them like a little architect. And Alice—she had music today, right? And... did you go somewhere?"
My jaw clenched. That should've been normal. But I used to beg for this. For him to remember my schedule. To care. I'd sit beside him on the couch and ask about his meetings, his clients, his stress levels like I was trying to collect pieces of him before they scattered. I'd make him tea when he was tired. Offer solutions he didn't take. Sit in bed late waiting for him to walk in, just to ask, "Tell me something good about today." I'd rub his shoulders when he looked tense. Trace circles on his wrist with my thumb. Give a damn.
Now, I couldn't bring myself to even crack the door open.
I heard his sighs when he thought I wasn't listening. The quiet frustration in his breath. The guilt, too. The confusion. He was looking for the version of me that used to greet him at the door, and instead he found a woman who no longer cared what mug he drank his coffee from.
But the worst part? I did care.
He started staying for breakfast, too. Sitting at the table instead of rushing out the door with his tie half-done like he used to. Jimmy barely acknowledged him. A few muttered "yeah"s or "dunno"s if he was directly spoken to, but mostly he pushed cereal around the bowl and avoided eye contact.
I didn't talk to Thomas much in the mornings. I offered coffee like a peace treaty I didn't believe in. I answered in single syllables. I didn't smile.
He noticed, of course. He was noticing everything now—my clipped tone, my empty eyes, the invisible border between us. But it was too late for noticing.