He turned to her blandly.

“You aren’t the same anymore. I hardly recognize you. I know you love me, but I am aware of that only as knowledge. From experience, almost as nostalgia.
You look at me with a fondness that seems to come from habit. You touch me with a gentleness that comfort requires. You hold me from need.

You look at me fondly, but you pass my querying looks by without so much as an acknowledgement; you ignore me out of a subconscious indifference, not deliberately.

You listen, but you listen to my words for what they are, not what they could be.
You lie on your back in the ease of normalcy, the comfort of that which is taken for granted, the love of habit.”

His mind was churning with thoughts, yet nothing articulated itself- individually or as messy emotional throw up. He looked at her silently, as her hand disinterestedly fingered the remote, her eyes staring gazing almost numbly at the TV in front of her. Then she turned, gave him a watery smile and looked away again.

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