Try

The thing is, he's right. But so is she. She frightens him now. That's new. Whatever love and intimacy that existed between them has been worn down, rubbed out from months of struggle. She's turned inward, collapsed on herself. He stands farther off, eyes to the floor. They'll sit for interminable amounts of time not speaking, avoiding all contact while sharing a bed barely built for two. From great beginnings come heartbroken endings. It started slowly, imperceptibly at first. Disagreements over petty things, arguments exploding out of thin air over inconsequential actions, a misunderstanding, a missed call, a late reply, an extended pause. She became combustible, a volcano erupting, annihilating entire landscapes with molten lava of language. He was a wall, stretched thin in every direction, undulating with her waves of emotion crashing down onto him, over him, drowning him. Now they are on opposing teams, enemies sharing camp desperate for some sort of armistice. It's coming on Christmas. Forced familial festivities drive a wedge deeper into the cavernous realm growing between them. No one can know, no one must detect their discord. Smile and wave, shuck and jive, avoid the mistletoe. Find solace in sombre reflections of the season and try. They will try to reconvene in the place where they once loved each other fully, completely. He picks up the shards of glass, pricking his thumb. Blood drips onto the soft wood floors, worn down from decades of use. Couples before them, families; struggles, celebrations, births, deaths, all uniting on these boards. She kneels next to him, taking his hand in hers, squeezing with a napkin, whispering, over and over, I'm sorry, I'm so, so, so sorry. He can't meet her gaze; he stares at the knots of pine, dark, dirty, crumbling round their edges, and mindlessly slips his finger into the hole, picking away at the splinters. Her hand slips from his,  her breath grows quiet as she pulls her hand back to her side, letting the brown stained napkin fall into his lap.