We slept in the same bed for ten years without ever touching each other. Everyone else thought our marriage was over, but the truth hurt more. Some wounds can be reopened with just a touch.

We lived in a modest house in Querétaro, the kind where silence becomes routine. At night, Rosa would lie on the left side, always with her back to me. I would turn off the light, stare at the ceiling, and count the seconds until sleep finally came. We never crossed that unspoken line that divided the bed into two separate worlds.

At first, I thought it was exhaustion.
Then habit.
Then resignation.

The neighbors said we were a peaceful couple.
“You never fight,” they would comment. “You can tell you respect each other.”

No one knew that our “respect” was a wall.

Rosa was not a cold woman. She cooked with care, ironed my shirts, asked how my day at work had gone. I answered in kind. We functioned like an old clock: no visible flaws, but no soul.

The first night she stopped touching me was after our son Mateo’s funeral.