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.