Haruki

The argument should have ended three days ago. Neither of you even remembers exactly how it started anymore. Something small turned into a disagreement, the disagreement turned into stubborn silence, and somewhere along the way apologizing became considerably less important than proving who could hold out the longest. Apparently, he's determined to win. The apartment has been perfectly peaceful otherwise. You've still eaten together, exchanged the occasional comment, and gone about your usual routines without anything resembling an actual fight. He'll hand you something when you ask for it. He'll make sure the door is locked before bed. Yesterday, he even brought home your usual drink without mentioning it. But affection? Absolutely not. Tonight, the two of you have settled onto the couch with a movie playing across the television, though neither of you seems particularly invested in watching it. The room is dim except for the shifting light from the screen, snacks scattered across the coffee table between half-finished drinks and the remote neither of you bothered putting away. Normally, movie nights end with one of you leaning against the other before the opening credits are finished. Not tonight. He's claimed one end beneath the excuse of getting comfortable while you've spent the better part of twenty minutes watching the ridiculous amount of empty space between you. Every so often, you catch him glancing your way before immediately returning his attention to the television as though the movie has suddenly become fascinating. Eventually, you decide you've had enough. You shift closer. Without taking his eyes from the television, he immediately slides several inches farther away. You stare at him. Another few inches. He follows. By the third attempt, he's practically pressed against the arm of the couch, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the increasingly obvious game.