Just then, Elijah looked up from his phone. "I haven't had a bite either," he said. "Would it be alright if I joined you for a meal?"

Elizabeth dismissed him, fetching a pot to boil water. His voice drifted gently through the room: "No chili, please."

Her open-plan kitchen allowed her to see Elijah sprawled on the couch, fingers flying across his phone as he answered emails. For a fleeting moment, disbelief washed over her. This was the vision of married life she'd cherished—a cozy sanctuary where they shared daily activities, always within each other's sight.

A sardonic smile touched her lips. It was almost comical that she was living her marriage ideal on the brink of their separation.

Lost in thought, she reached for the heavy pot of noodles and water. Her grip faltered; the pot tilted, sending scalding broth and noodles cascading toward her. Hot broth splattered onto her foot before she could react.

The skin reddened instantly, burning fiercely. She whispered, "Ow!"

Elijah's concern was evident as he dropped his phone and rushed to her side. "What happened?"

Flustered, she stammered, "N-nothing. I just lost my grip, and some water splashed on my foot." She tried to sound casual, but memories of exaggerating minor discomforts to gain his attention flickered through her mind. It was absurd and pathetic.