The fluorescent hum of O’Hare always felt like a prelude to something, usually anxiety. John gripped his carry-on tighter as Alice navigated them through the throngs towards their gate. It wasn’t the flying he minded; it was the expectation that preceded every trip. He knew Alice had built this Montana getaway up in her mind for months – bison grazing in golden light, geysers erupting against a sapphire sky, nights under an impossible blanket of stars. John just wanted to not screw it up.

Their marriage wasn’t bad. Not bad at all, he supposed. Just…muted lately. The sharp edges of early affection had worn smooth with routine, replaced by a comfortable, predictable rhythm that sometimes felt more like cohabitation than partnership. He worked as an accountant, meticulously balancing numbers; Alice was a freelance graphic designer, her work spilling into evenings and weekends in a way that left John feeling slightly peripheral.

“Think the rental SUV will be big enough?” Alice asked, already pulling up the reservation on her phone. “We’re going to have all our gear, maybe some souvenirs…”

John shrugged. “Should be fine. They said it's full-size.” He knew she worried about details like this. About being prepared for every eventuality. It was a trait he sometimes admired, sometimes found stifling. One carry on and one suitcase each but ‘full-size’ is what she thought she needed.

The flight to Billings wasn’t remarkable. John stared out the window at the patchwork quilt of Midwest farmland dissolving into the vast, arid plains approaching Montana. He tried to read his book – a dense biography of Robert Caro – but kept getting distracted by the woman in front of him who was loudly narrating her life story on speakerphone.

Alice sketched in a small notebook, occasionally glancing out the window with that look he’d come to recognize: anticipation bordering on disappointment when reality didn't immediately match the image she'd constructed. He wondered what her internal slideshow looked like - the perfect bison portrait, the spray of Old Faithful captured at its apex.

Billings airport was small and functional. The rental counter clerk handed them the keys to a Ford Explorer – dark gray, practical. Alice inspected it with an eye for scratches and dents, documenting each one on her phone as “pre-existing damage.” John sighed inwardly. This wasn’t about avoiding charges; it felt like preemptive control in a situation where she couldn't fully orchestrate the outcome.

The drive from Billings towards Yellowstone was long, stretching across sun-bleached plains under an enormous sky. The landscape unfolded slowly, revealing rolling hills and then, abruptly, the rugged peaks of the Absaroka Range. Alice had mapped out every stop: a roadside diner for coffee, a small town with antique shops she'd read about, the entrance to the park via West Yellowstone.

He noticed her subtly adjusting the temperature in the car every few minutes, fiddling with the radio station until she found something that wasn’t “too country” or “too pop.” John just wanted silence. He needed a moment to collect his thoughts, but Alice's need for control extended even to the ambient soundtrack of their trip.

“Do you think we should have packed more snacks?” she asked after an hour on the road.

“We’re stopping for lunch in Gardiner,” he reminded her.

“Just checking.” She paused. “I read that bison can be really aggressive here. We need to stay at least a hundred yards away, right?”

John nodded. He hadn't bothered with the pre-trip research. It felt like homework assigned by Alice, and he’d opted for passive compliance instead of active engagement.

They reached Gardiner just as the sun began its descent, casting long shadows over the mountains. The town was a bustling outpost catering to tourists – souvenir shops overflowing with bison plushies, restaurants advertising huckleberry pie. After checking into their motel, a functional but unremarkable place, Alice immediately started planning the next day’s itinerary.

“Okay,” she said, spreading out maps and brochures on the bed. “Tomorrow we should hit Old Faithful first thing to avoid crowds. Then maybe Midway Geyser Basin, Grand Prismatic Spring. We can have lunch at Canyon Village…”

John leaned against the headboard, feeling a familiar exhaustion creeping in. Not physical tiredness, but a weariness of spirit. He knew this wasn't about efficiency; it was about maximizing the experience, squeezing every possible Instagrammable moment out of their time here.

“Sounds good,” he mumbled.

Alice glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “You okay? You seem quiet.”

“Just tired from the flight,” he said. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. But it also wasn't the whole truth. He was tired of being the silent participant in his own life, the one who deferred to Alice's plans and desires without offering much of his own.

The next few days blurred into a whirlwind of geysers, hot springs, wildlife sightings, and photo opportunities. Yellowstone was undeniably stunning – a landscape sculpted by ancient forces, teeming with life both majestic and primordial. They saw bison lumbering across the meadows, elk grazing near the riverbanks, and distant glimpses of wolves through binoculars.

But John found himself increasingly detached. He took pictures dutifully, but without genuine engagement. The awe that seemed to radiate from Alice felt foreign to him. Instead, he observed the other tourists – families wrangling children, couples posing for selfies, tour buses disgorging crowds at every viewpoint. They were all striving for the perfect image, the tangible proof of their experience, and it struck him as a kind of performance art rather than genuine connection with nature.

He also couldn't help but notice the small frictions that had become more pronounced away from the distractions of home. Alice was critical of his driving (“You’re going too fast!”), annoyed by his habit of falling asleep in the car (“I need your help navigating!”), and exasperated when he suggested deviating from her planned route (“But I already researched this area!”).

One evening, after a particularly frustrating day spent battling crowds at Old Faithful, John snapped. They were eating dinner at a crowded cafeteria in Canyon Village, the noise echoing off the high ceilings. Alice was meticulously editing photos on her phone, barely acknowledging his presence.

“Do you ever just…look?” he asked, his voice sharper than intended.

She looked up, startled. “Look? At what?”

“At the canyon. At the wildlife. At anything without trying to capture it for social media.”

Alice stiffened. “I’m preserving memories,” she said defensively.

“Or performing them?” He immediately regretted saying that, but the words had slipped out before he could stop them.

A tense silence descended between them. The cafeteria noise seemed to amplify around their small table. Finally, Alice sighed and put her phone down.

“What’s wrong, John? You've been distant all week.”

He hesitated. He didn't want to start a fight here, but the bottled-up frustration was threatening to spill over.

“I just…feel like I’m along for the ride,” he said quietly. “Like my own experience doesn't matter unless it aligns with your plans.”

Alice stared at him, her expression a mixture of hurt and confusion. "That's not true! I want you to enjoy this."

"I know," John said. "But enjoyment feels different when it's curated instead of spontaneous." He thought about the bison they’d seen earlier that day, grazing in a meadow bathed in golden light. Alice had spent ten minutes directing him to find the perfect angle for her photo, while he’d just wanted to sit and watch them peacefully.

“I guess I just…need more space,” he finished lamely.

Alice didn't respond immediately. She picked at her food, pushing peas around on her plate. After a long moment, she said softly, "Maybe you should go for a walk."

He did. He walked along the rim of the canyon as twilight deepened, watching the shadows lengthen and the sky turn shades of purple and orange. The vastness of it all was humbling, but even the beauty felt muted through the lens of his own disappointment.

The rest of their time in Yellowstone followed a similar pattern. They visited more landmarks – Mammoth Hot Springs, Lamar Valley, Hayden Valley – each one meticulously checked off Alice’s list. John tried to engage, to participate, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was playing a role in her carefully constructed narrative rather than living his own experience.

On their last evening, they sat on the porch of their motel room, sipping lukewarm coffee and watching the sun set over the mountains. The air was crisp and clean, scented with pine. Alice scrolled through her photos, occasionally pointing out ones she thought were particularly good.

“Look at this one,” she said, showing him a close-up of an elk grazing in a meadow. “The light is perfect.”

John nodded politely. He’d taken a similar photo himself, but hadn't bothered to edit it or share it. It existed only as a digital file on his phone, a silent testament to a moment he’d witnessed alone.

“Did you have a good trip?” Alice asked finally, her voice tentative.

John considered the question. He couldn't honestly say yes. But he also didn't want to hurt her feelings. She'd put so much effort into making this trip special for both of them.

“It was…nice,” he said cautiously. “Beautiful scenery.”

Alice looked at him, searching his face for any sign of genuine enthusiasm. When she saw none, her expression deflated slightly.

“I’m glad you think so,” she said quietly.

The silence that followed wasn't comfortable or companionable; it was a vast expanse mirroring the physical distance between them. John realized that their trip hadn’t bridged any gaps in their relationship; if anything, it had illuminated them more starkly. They had seen magnificent sights together, but they hadn’t truly connected with each other.

The drive back to Billings the next morning was subdued. Alice drove most of the way, her hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. John stared out the window at the receding mountains, feeling a sense of relief mixed with an unsettling hollowness.

At the airport, waiting for their flight back to Chicago, they sat in silence, each absorbed in their own thoughts. Alice was editing photos again, preparing them for Instagram. John flipped through his book, but couldn't concentrate on the words. He kept glancing at Alice, wondering what she was thinking, if she felt as disconnected as he did. But her face remained impassive, lost in the digital world of likes and comments.

As they boarded the plane, John glanced out the window one last time at the Montana sky, vast and indifferent. The landscape stretched out before him, a tapestry of mountains, plains, and distant horizons. It was beautiful, yes, but also unforgivingly remote. And he wondered if that wasn't a fitting metaphor for the state of their marriage – a beautiful distance growing between two people who were once close, now separated by an unbridgeable expanse of unspoken needs and unmet expectations. The flight home would be long, and John knew this trip wouldn’t change anything. It had simply been another layer added to the quiet erosion of their life together, dust accumulating on surfaces they hadn't bothered to polish in a while. He closed his eyes, bracing himself for the return to routine, knowing that the real work—the honest conversation, the shared vulnerability—was still waiting for them back in Chicago, buried beneath layers of habit and avoidance. But he wasn’t sure either of them had the energy to dig it out. The Montana sky faded from view as the plane climbed higher, leaving behind a landscape too vast for two people who were slowly drifting apart.

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