She noticed it first as a vague, unnameable absence. Not the dramatic, sudden loss of libido that sometimes follows childbirth or illness. Something quieter. A slow fading, like a photograph left too long in the sun. She still loved him. She still found him handsome, still enjoyed his company, still felt the warmth of their shared history every time she looked across the dinner table. But the hunger that had once pulled her toward him, the physical ache of wanting, had gone quiet. She did not know when it had left. She did not know if it would ever come back. And she was terrified to say any of this out loud, because speaking it would make it real, and making it real might mean the end of something she was not ready to lose.