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.

Maybe all of it at once.

One night, after so many years, I finally dared to speak.

“Rosa… how long are we going to live like this?”

She didn’t turn around. Her voice came out dim and distant.

“As we live now… it’s the only thing I have left.”

“Do you hate me?”

She took her time before answering.

“No,” she said. “But I can’t touch you either.”

Her words wounded me more deeply than any insult.