Colton and I had been living separately.

We attended a few counseling sessions, not to force reconciliation, but to understand whether we could speak to each other without slipping into old roles.

In one session the counselor asked what each of us missed.

Colton answered first.

He missed the way I hummed while cooking, the sketches on the table, the way I used to tell him about strange buildings I had seen around the city.

“I miss being someone’s husband,” he said.