We’d had one of those arguments—the kind where nothing explosive is said, but everything feels sharp. By midnight, we both agreed on the unspoken solution: separate rooms.
I lay in the guest bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the argument in my head, convincing myself I was absolutely right. Sleep wasn’t happening. So I closed my eyes and practiced dramatic, imaginary conversations where I won.
Sometime later, I heard the door creak.
I kept my eyes shut.
Soft footsteps. A pause. Then the familiar sound of drawers opening. He was clearly trying not to wake me.
Then he stopped right beside the bed.
I felt the mattress dip slightly as he leaned in. My heart thumped. Was this it? An apology? A tender moment? A rom-com reconciliation?
He whispered, very softly,
“I wish…”
I waited.
“…you wouldn’t hide the charger in your purse.”
I opened my eyes just as he gently plucked my phone from the nightstand, unplugged my charger, and added,
“I need it. Mine’s dead.”
Without another word, he walked out.
I lay there in stunned silence… then burst out laughing.
We made up the next morning—over coffee, using his fully charged phone.
