The net, it turned out, was full of holes. And we were falling through them, one by one, snagging and tearing on the frayed threads of our own making.
We tried. In the days that followed our hollow, life-raft night, we made efforts that felt as heavy as lead. We went on a scheduled "date night" to a nice restaurant, the kind with cloth napkins and candles that flickered between us like silent, mocking chaperons. We talked about safe topics—Lily's new friend at school, a viral news story, the predictable plot of a new streaming show.
The conversation was polite, strained, a tennis match with a soggy ball. The easy, electric banter that had once felt like our native language was gone, replaced by the careful, halting navigation of two people walking a field they knew was mined, every s
