Ethan woke to the sound of silence pressing too hard against his ears.
For a few seconds, he didn't remember where he was. The bed felt narrower than usual, the ceiling unfamiliar. Then the ache in his chest returned, dull and constant, and the truth slid back into place.
The spare room.
The night hadn't really ended. It had only thinned into something gray and watchful. Light crept through the cheap curtains, pale and uncertain, like it wasn't sure it was welcome.
He checked the time.
6:11 a.m.
Sarah would usually be rushing now. Hairdryer humming. Closet doors opening and closing. The faint panic of a woman who had somewhere to be.
There was none of that.
The apartment felt suspended, as if it were holding its breath.
Ethan sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair. His body felt heavy, not with exhaustion, but with anticipation—like something bad was about to happen again, even though the worst had already occurred.
He dressed out of habit. A clean shirt. Pressed trousers. The kind of clothes that said I am still a man with purpose, even if no one was asking.
The mirror caught his reflection as he buttoned the shirt. His face looked older than it had two days ago. Not aged—strained. As though something had been pulled too tight beneath the skin.
In the kitchen, Sarah stood barefoot at the counter, scrolling through her phone. She wore a soft sweater and leggings, the kind she usually reserved for slow mornings. Her hair was loosely tied back. No makeup. No urgency.
Margaret sat at the table, coffee steaming beside her, posture rigid and composed as ever.
No one greeted him.
Ethan poured himself a glass of water. The sound echoed too loudly.
"I'm going to spend today applying," he said finally.
Sarah made a noncommittal sound, eyes still on her screen.
Margaret looked up. "Online?"
"For now," Ethan replied. "I'll also call a few firms. People I've worked with."
Margaret's lips thinned. "Cold calls won't change reality."
Ethan ignored her and looked at Sarah. "I'll find something."
Sarah set her phone down slowly. "How fast?"
"As fast as possible."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only honest one."
She rubbed her temple, a gesture he recognized well. It was what she did when things didn't align with her expectations.
"We don't have time for 'possible,' Ethan," she said.
His stomach tightened. "We have savings."
Margaret let out a short, humorless laugh.
Sarah stiffened. "Not much."
Ethan turned toward her fully. "What do you mean, not much?"
She avoided his eyes. "You know… the expenses last month."
A memory surfaced unbidden—shopping bags lined neatly along the hallway. The designer shoes she'd been excited about. The boutique dresses. The way she'd laughed and said, We can afford it. You always land on your feet.
His throat tightened.
"How much is left?" he asked quietly.
Sarah hesitated too long.
Margaret answered for her. "Enough to be comfortable if you were still employed. Not enough to wait around."
Ethan felt the floor tilt beneath him. "You spent most of it?"
Sarah's voice sharpened. "I didn't know you were going to get fired."
"I didn't either," he said.
Margaret folded her arms. "Which is why a household should never rely on one stream of income."
Ethan stared at Sarah. "Why didn't you tell me we were that low?"
Her eyes flashed. "Because it was supposed to be temporary. You always made more. There was always another bonus. Another raise."
He swallowed hard. "That money was our buffer."
"I was managing the home," she snapped. "That's what you wanted."
"I wanted us to be secure."
"We were secure," she said, voice rising. "Until you weren't."
The words hit like a blow.
Margaret stood, smoothing her blouse. "Blame doesn't solve insolvency."
Ethan clenched his jaw. "I'll fix this."
Margaret glanced at the clock. "I have an appointment and after that i'm going back to my house.Sarah my love you are welcome any time baby unlike some other people."
She paused beside him, eyes assessing him with cool detachment. "Men are measured by what they provide. When provision fails, everything else is… negotiable."
Then she left.
The door closed with a sharp click.
Sarah remained by the counter, arms crossed, shoulders tense.
"You should've told me," Ethan said.
She laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. "And what? Stress you out while you were working yourself half to death?"
"At least I would've known the stakes."
"The stakes were always high," she replied. "You just never thought you'd lose."
That hurt more than he expected.
"I didn't think we would lose," he said.
She looked away.
By late morning, the apartment felt too small.
Ethan sat in the spare room, laptop open, job boards glowing on the screen. His fingers moved quickly, mechanically, as though speed could compensate for circumstance.
Structural Engineer – Senior
Infrastructure Design
Bridge Analysis
Submit.
Submit.
Submit.
Each application felt like a silent plea.
From the living room came the faint sound of television noise. Daytime programming. Low volume. Background distraction. Sarah wasn't watching—just filling the silence.
He checked their bank balance.
The number stared back at him, unforgiving.
His chest tightened.
This wasn't a setback.
This was a countdown.
By noon, the first rejection arrived. Automated. Impersonal.
He closed the email without reading it fully.
The second followed soon after.
Then the third.
He shut the laptop harder than necessary and leaned back, pressing his palms into his eyes.
This was the part no one warned you about.
Not the fall—but the waiting.
The way dignity eroded in increments. The way time stretched when you had nowhere you were required to be.
His phone buzzed.
Hope flared.
Unknown number.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
No voicemail.
No message.
Just another almost.
He laughed softly, a sound that startled him with its bitterness.
Sarah appeared in the doorway sometime later.
"You're still applying?" she asked.
"Yes."
She leaned against the frame, arms crossed. "Any responses?"
"Nothing useful."
She exhaled sharply. "It hasn't even been a full day."
"It feels longer."
She studied him, eyes lingering on his clothes. "You dressed like you're going somewhere."
"I needed to feel normal."
She nodded slowly. "Normal's expensive."
The words sat between them, sharp and accusing.
"You're home all day," he said carefully. "You could help by cutting back. Pausing expenses."
Her eyes flashed. "I don't earn, Ethan. I manage. That's different."
"It still costs money."
"So now this is my fault?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
Silence thickened.
She looked tired, he realized. Not just worried—frustrated. Like someone whose carefully curated life had suddenly gone off-script.
"I didn't sign up for instability," she said quietly.
"I didn't either."
"But you're the one who lost the job."
The words landed heavy.
Ethan stood slowly. "I lost a position. Not my competence."
"That doesn't pay bills," she snapped.
"No," he said. "But neither does shopping."
Her face hardened.
"That was our lifestyle."
"That was based on my income," he replied. "Which is gone."
She hugged herself, pacing. "I can't breathe in this apartment anymore."
"Neither can I," he said. "But running won't fix it."
She stopped, turning to him. "I need space."
His chest tightened. "Space to do what?"
"To think. To breathe. To decide what I'm willing to live with."
"Are you leaving?" he asked quietly.
She hesitated.
"Not today," she said. "But something has to change."
She turned and walked back toward the bedroom they once shared, closing the door behind her.
The sound echoed through the apartment.
Ethan remained where he was, staring at the wall, his mind racing with numbers and timelines and worst-case scenarios.
They weren't just unstable.
They were close to broke.
And the structure he'd spent years holding up was already pulling away from its supports.
This wasn't collapse.
Not yet.
This was the moment before failure—
when the load exceeded what the foundation was designed to bear.