She waits for him, waits for him to change his mind, or at least for the rustling of sheets when he settles in on the opposite side, but... there's nothing.

She keeps her back to him, mind aimlessly stirring in exhaustion, unable to piece together a coherent thought for her. The theme is all the same, though; her new reality, miserable as it now seems, is going to take some getting used to.

Throughout the night, she stays curled against the edge of the bed in a tight ball, tears streaming (almost) silently into the pillow in a pitiful lament. Wedding night indeed.

When she wakes the next morning, only to find him still not in bed and the shower running in the next room, she stays as she is, debating if getting up is really worth it. They aren't expected anywhere immediately.... not for the next few days. Surely no one would bat an eye if she stayed in bed in a bundle of empty, sad emotion and didn't make an appearance for at least that long.

She really, truly considers it, before she notices the tissues on her bedside table. Those.... hasn't been there before, had they?

Her eyes flick again to the bathroom door, and she sighs, running a hand down her face. An early riser... noted. Would he still feel as burnt as she did from their exchange the night before?