Her theory is that people always fall out of love for the same reasons they fall into it. Everything exciting eventually becomes a nuisance. Recently, on a camping trip, Sebastian forgot to pack pillows and arranged their clothes into lumpy rectangles to cushion their heads. She stayed up all night, glaring at him, his heavy breath always inching toward a snore. But she used to gush over these small acts of innovation after first meeting him. Like when he secured a handle to the middle of her surfboard so she could carry it beneath her arm. Or built a step stool when he noticed she could barely reach the upper cabinets in his house. Now she feels annoyed by how much useless knowledge he seems to carry. That they can’t go anywhere without him regurgitating trivia. At the coffee shop, he boasts to the barista about his expertise in siphon pots. At the dentist, he talks with a full mouth of metal tools about ancient methods of molar removal.

She has watched him begin to resent her, too. He used to be so taken by her curiosity when they went on walks and she kneeled down to inspect a beetle or peeked in through the windows of an abandoned house, enchanted and grinning. But now what he clearly used to see as a charming eagerness to know the world has evolved into words like nosy, invasive, disrespectful. She has watched his fondness distort into resentment and his responses to her stories tighten into sour nods. She has tried to change the things about herself he’s started to hate, to breezily look the other direction when something catches her interest. But while she thought she could harness her questions until they learned to heel, all they do is yank at their chains, bloody and barking in her brain.