Now, the cold was different. It wasn’t outside. It was between them. A creeping frost that started with small things—a forgotten anniversary, a dismissed opinion, a hand reaching across the bed for a hand that wasn’t there. They’d stopped talking about anything real. Stopped laughing at inside jokes. Stopped saying I love you like it meant something other than goodnight .
“But I’ve been thinking,” he continued. He pulled his knees up to his chest, made himself smaller. “About the pond. The proposal. You remember?”
They sat with that for a moment. The wind picked up, rattled the bare branches of the oak tree. Emma shivered. Cold Feet
Three years of marriage. Two of them good. One of them slowly freezing over.
Emma pulled her sweater tighter and sat on the top step. The engagement ring felt heavier than usual. She twisted it around her finger, a nervous habit she’d picked up in the last six months. The diamond caught the porch light and scattered tiny rainbows across her jeans. Now, the cold was different
Emma nodded. She did know. She’d married him anyway, because his quiet had once felt like safety. Now it felt like a locked door.
They stood up together. Mark’s hand found hers—not the ring hand, the other one, the one that had been hanging empty at her side. Their fingers laced together, hesitant at first, then tighter. A creeping frost that started with small things—a
A long pause. The neighbor’s cat wound between the porch railings, gave them both a disdainful look, and disappeared into the bushes.