The drive home.

The evening had been good. Really good, actually — we'd laughed, the conversation had flowed, I'd felt close to him in a way that had been harder to find lately. On the drive home I was still warm from it, replaying the good parts.

Then he went quiet.

Not distracted-quiet. Gone-quiet. I could feel the shift. I glanced over and he was staring at the road, jaw slightly set, somewhere else entirely.

I went back through the evening in my mind. Had I said something? There was that moment when I'd made a joke — had it landed wrong? I replayed it. Maybe. I wasn't sure.

By the time we got home I'd talked myself into three different versions of what I'd done wrong. I got ready for bed without saying much. I didn't want to start something. I didn't want to make it worse.

I fell asleep wondering what I'd done.

The evening had been good. I'd been present, engaged — genuinely enjoyed it. On the drive home I felt the particular kind of tired that comes after being social, even with someone you love. My mind went quiet the way it does when I'm processing, settling.

I wasn't thinking about her. I wasn't thinking about anything much. Just driving, decompressing, glad it had been a good night.

I noticed she got quiet too, which seemed fine. Assumed she was tired. Got ready for bed, noticed she seemed a little distant but figured she was just winding down.

I fell asleep thinking it had been a good evening.