Chapter Text
The silence in the kitchen wasn’t new, but today it felt heavier than usual.
It wasn’t the kind that came after a deep conversation, or the peaceful stillness of two people who knew each other so well that words weren’t always necessary. It was the kind that echoed. The kind that filled in all the gaps where laughter used to live.
Shayne stood at the counter, waiting for the microwave to beep. He stirred his coffee absently, phone in one hand, eyes barely focused. His thumb scrolled through notifications, work emails, a meme from Damien, a group chat he hadn’t replied to in two days. The microwave chimed. He took the mug out and sipped it without noticing it was still too hot.
Behind him, Courtney leaned against the doorframe. Her oversized hoodie—his hoodie, technically—hung loosely around her frame. Her arms were crossed, but her face was soft. Observant.
“Today’s Wednesday,” she said gently.
Shayne didn’t turn around.
“Yeah,” he replied, distracted. Another scroll. Another meaningless glance at a screen.
She stepped into the kitchen slowly. “We used to do something on Wednesdays.”
His brow furrowed. “What?”
“Wednesday nights,” she reminded him with a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Bad movies, frozen pizza, half a bottle of wine we both pretend to like.”
Shayne chuckled lightly, but it felt automatic. “Yeah… right. Been a while, huh?”
“You stopped asking,” she said quietly. “And I didn’t want to force it.”
That made him look up. Finally. His expression softened, but there was still that distance in his eyes, like he was looking at her from the other side of a glass wall.
“I’m just tired lately. Work’s been a lot,” he offered.
“I know,” she said. And she did. Of course she did.
But she also knew that it wasn’t just work. Not anymore.
They stood there in silence again.
“I’ll be home early tonight,” Shayne said after a moment, not meeting her gaze. “Maybe we could… I don’t know. Watch something.”
Courtney nodded, her smile polite, practiced. “Sure.”
They’d sat on the couch together, one of their old comfort movies playing on the TV. She’d lit candles, bought his favorite snacks. She even curled into his side the way she used to.
But he never leaned back. Never laughed at the parts he used to quote.
He held the remote more than her hand.
He was quiet, like the movie wasn’t on at all.
Like he was just… waiting for it to end.
And when it did, he mumbled something about being tired and went to bed without a word.
No "that was fun."
No "thanks for picking this one."
Just silence.
Like he hadn’t even noticed she was trying to recover something he didn't know was lost.
Shayne sat on the edge of the bed, shirt half on, staring at a spot on the floor like it might speak to him.
The morning light filtered in through the blinds, soft and golden, warming the sheets behind him. Courtney was still asleep — or at least pretending to be. She’d curled into herself during the night, facing the wall, her breathing steady but... not relaxed.
He knew the curve of her back. The way her shoulders rose when she was dreaming something stressful.
He used to trace those lines with his fingers, press kisses to the space behind her ear just to make her laugh.
Now he was just... sitting.
He finished dressing in silence. No music, no humming like he used to. His brain felt like it was in a fog most of the time. Like he was waiting for a version of himself to return, but every day that passed, the version he used to be felt further away.
When he stepped into the kitchen, Courtney had already placed a mug on the counter for him.
"Didn’t think you were awake," he muttered, grabbing it.
She shrugged, still in her pajamas. “Woke up early. Couldn’t sleep.”
Shayne didn’t ask why.
And that, he knew, was the problem.
The drive to work was quiet, even though he had music playing. Some playlist he hadn’t updated in over a year. Every song reminded him of something — a trip with her, a sketch they wrote together, a dumb moment in the Smosh kitchen where she laughed so hard she spilled her drink.
Back then, he would’ve given anything to make her laugh like that again.
Now?
Now, he didn’t know what he would give for anything.
He still cared. He knew that. He still wanted her to be happy. He still admired her, respected her. But the way he used to feel her — the energy between them, the pull in his chest when she walked into a room — it had faded into something he didn’t recognize.
And maybe the worst part of it all was that he hadn’t noticed when it started to fade.
It was just... gone. Quietly, like smoke.
Later that day, as the cast regrouped around the set, laughing over a half-broken prop someone had accidentally kicked across the room, Shayne felt something strange: relief.
Not because the day was over.
But because being here — in the noise, in the jokes, in the chaos — was easier than home.
He didn’t have to explain himself here.
Didn’t have to sit in silence with a woman he loved but no longer knew how to reach.
At Smosh, he could perform. He could disappear with permission.
She was already home when he got back, candles lit on the dining table, a pizza box open between them.
"Movie night," she said, her smile just a little too hopeful. “I picked the worst one I could find. It’s about a haunted... toaster, I think.”
He chuckled, took off his jacket, sat down beside her. “That’s impressively bad.”
They started watching. He tried to engage. He really did. But twenty minutes in, she was laughing — really laughing — and he couldn’t find it in himself to join her. He smiled, he nodded, he threw in a few half-hearted reactions. But it wasn’t the same.
And she knew it.
She leaned her head against his shoulder near the end of the movie. He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t lean back either.
When they got into bed, she faced him.
“Are you still in love with me?”
The question was so soft he could’ve pretended he didn’t hear it.
He almost did.
But instead, he closed his eyes and whispered, “I don’t know.”
Courtney said nothing.
And that silence hurt more than anything else.
That night, Courtney sat at the kitchen table, legs curled up on the chair, a mug of tea long gone cold between her hands.
The house was quiet.
Shayne was asleep, phone still loose in his hand, face lit faintly by the glow of some video he’d been half-watching.
She hadn't woken him.
She hadn’t even kissed his cheek like she used to.
She just watched him for a moment.
Then walked away.
Now, in the kitchen, the silence pressed harder than the darkness outside. Her fingers tightened around the ceramic cup.
She couldn’t sleep.
Not because she was wired. Not because of caffeine.
But because of what Shayne had said earlier — almost carelessly, like it didn’t matter:
“It’s been nice being at Smosh. Everything’s just... easier there lately.”
Easier.
Not “fun.” Not “a distraction.”
Just easier.
Courtney wasn’t naïve. She could read subtext.
He wasn’t talking about work. He was talking about her.
About them.
And that truth had stuck to her chest like wet fabric ever since.
She looked out the window, not really seeing anything. Just... feeling everything.
He used to come home to her like she was his favorite part of the day.
Now, she was the part he needed a break from.
The kitchen light buzzed faintly above her, a soft, unsteady hum — almost like her thoughts.
And even if she couldn’t fully understand why he’d pulled away…
She could feel it in the way he stopped kissing her.
In the way he didn’t ask about her day.
She hadn’t said anything when he made that comment.
But in that moment, in the space between his words and her smile,
something inside her had shifted.
Not into anger.
But into realization.
She wasn’t the home he came back to anymore.
She was the weight he quietly walked around.
Courtney started setting alarms earlier.
Not because she needed the extra time — she just wanted to be awake before him. She missed the mornings they used to spend together, when they'd stumble into the kitchen still half-asleep and bicker over who got to use the toaster first. Now, Shayne was usually gone before she even opened her eyes.
So she forced herself out of bed before sunrise. Made coffee. Made breakfast. Nothing fancy, just little things he used to love — burnt toast the way he weirdly preferred it, scrambled eggs with too much pepper.
He still ate quietly.
Still said, “Thanks,” and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.
And every morning, she smiled like it was enough.
She started dressing differently, too.
Not that he ever commented on what she wore — Shayne wasn’t like that — but she noticed his eyes didn’t linger anymore. The way they used to light up when she walked into a room? Gone.
So she bought new clothes. Did her hair a little more. Wore perfume she hadn’t worn since their honeymoon. Some nights, when he got home late, she’d be waiting on the couch with candles lit, something soft playing on her phone. She even cooked dinner once — really cooked, like, full recipe, grocery list, three pans going at once kind of cooking.
He’d been appreciative. Surprised, even.
But he’d said something that sat heavy in her chest.
“You didn’t have to do all this.”
And maybe she didn’t.
But she wanted to.
Because someone had to fight for them.
They went to a friend’s birthday party that weekend.
They showed up holding hands, smiling like nothing was wrong. That was the thing about being together for so long — they knew how to play the part. They laughed at jokes, stood close in photos, clinked glasses like a couple who still fit together perfectly.
But then she saw him across the room, deep in conversation with someone from old smosh. He was animated, expressive, laughing in that way she hadn’t seen in months.
And it hit her, out of nowhere: He’s still in there.
Just not with her.
When they got home, she cried in the shower with the water running loud enough to cover the sound.
Later that night, as they lay in bed, she shifted under the covers.
“Do you still think about our wedding sometimes?” she asked.
There was a long pause.
“I think about how happy you looked,” Shayne answered.
“You didn’t?”
He turned to face the ceiling. “I did. Of course I did.”
But she could hear the hesitation. She could feel the weight of everything he didn’t say.
“I just want us to be okay,” she whispered.
“We are okay,” he said, automatically. Like a reflex.
Courtney bit her lip. “No. We’re not.”
And again, silence.
She wasn’t sure which version of Shayne hurt more — the one who didn’t love her anymore, or the one who couldn’t admit it.