The newlyweds sleep on opposite sides of the bed in deafening silence. Side by side, secret by secret. The woman sighs loudly while her husband presents to sleep. A new toaster, $5,000 in checks, and boxes of silverware litter the floor. Their corresponding gift receipts stacked in a tidy pile on the wife’s night table. The wife stares blankly into her bathroom; the room that knows more of her secrets than her own husband. She runs through its floor plan in her mind, the bottom left drawer where she snacks on her prescription pills, the porcelain toilet which holds more food than the kitchen’s disposal, the His and Hers towels that mop up her blood after a bad night. She quickly shakes the sight of the room out of her head, forcing herself to believe that she can survive her marriage- just as her mother tried to do. She is trapped inside silent dinners, tight smiles, and empty bottles. A quick thought runs through her mind, her eyes dart to the dresser, then to her closet where her suitcase is still full of clothes from their honeymoon to Bora-Bora. But she closes her eyes, blinking away the thought that has infested her head. She couldn’t quit. She wouldn’t quit. Not yet at least. She turns over to face her husband’s smooth, handsome face. She touches his face gently, caressing it almost. She is about to stroke his hair when his eyes dart open and he slaps her hand away from his face. She turns again in the bed, drowning into her thoughts once more.