The cage stayed on through the third night

Phone was down to three percent, the herbs on the kitchen sill had just started sprouting. I set the mug down and said quietly: “Time.”

He wiped his hands on the towel, nodded, and went to the bedroom. Came back already wearing the cage. We got into bed. I reached for the charger — the room left with only the dark window.

First night

He didn't toss long. At six I heard him breathe out and try to roll onto his stomach. “Lie still,” I said, hand on his back. He froze. Later he got up and took the shower we’d agreed on. Cold water, seven minutes, no talking.

He was at work during the day. Texted at lunch: “It pulls.” I answered: “Endure it.” That evening he showed me first thing that the cage was still on. After dinner he vacuumed the living room. Before bed he asked, “Even just an hour?” — “No. We’re already on night two.” He only nodded and lay down.

Second and third night

On the second night he woke at three. Whispered: “Can I walk around?” — “Lie still and breathe slower.” By morning he wasn’t shifting anymore. On the third night he fell asleep twenty minutes after the light went out. In the morning he got up and headed for the shower without being told.

Once I almost asked whether he really wasn’t getting enough sleep. I kept quiet.

By the end of the week the constant wearing had become just another part of the morning. He stopped asking every evening. One night he still asked to have it off — said he hadn’t slept. I answered: “We’ll see how the day goes.” He didn’t argue.

After the fourth night he moved more quietly through the house and hardly looked at his phone.

Hygiene now took no more than five minutes. Sometimes I checked with a finger under the edge — everything clean. If he stood under the water too long I said, “That’s enough.” He turned it off right away.

Weekday morning

On the fourth morning I woke first. The shower ran steady, no pauses. When he came out the cage was dry, his face ordinary. “All clean,” he said shortly. I nodded and finished my coffee.

I still needed to get the tires swapped, but I left it for the weekend.

That same evening he came home and started chopping vegetables straight away. “Could we stay up a little later?” — “No, ten o’clock.” He nodded and kept cutting. After the news he cleared the kitchen and went to the bedroom. When I came in the cage was already on, he was on his side looking at the ceiling.

The most important thing was not promising “forever” on day one. We just kept going night after night. When he asked to take it off I didn’t argue. Just “no” or “tomorrow.” He saw for himself that after the refusal he still fell asleep and felt fine in the morning.

• Check in the evening that the metal is dry.
• Morning: five minutes cold water and a quick check.
• If he asks to remove it, answer briefly and don’t discuss until morning.
• Don’t comment on how he’s doing during the day.
• Once a week check the skin with a finger.

After seven days the cage twenty-four seven no longer felt like an experiment. It was simply there. Sleeping in it had become ordinary, like brushing teeth.

Sometimes when we settle I rest my hand on the cage for a minute. That’s enough.