Logistics

He said it while his thumb kept moving,

eyes down on the screen,

like the guest room was a choice

and not a symptom.

Just sleeping there now.

More comfortable. More space.

Your mother and I need

different rooms, different air.

I watched her face when he said it—

not changing exactly,

but going still.

The way a room goes still

right before something breaks.

The guest room door had always been closed.

I thought that meant it was saved for someone.

I didn't know it meant

he was already leaving.

That the leaving was practical.

That it had a room.

That it had measurements.

He went back to scrolling.

She went back to the dishes.

And I learned that marriages don't end

in fights.

They end in spare rooms

and the way someone's thumb

keeps moving

even after they've said

the thing that changes everything.