ADAM | NB

For the past few weeks, it felt like you weren't living your life. Workdays stretched into the night: endless reports, phone calls, exhaustion. Your boss snapped at you at every opportunity, and you endured it, pent up until you were filled with anger and resentment. At home, this resulted in harsh words, irritation, and coldness, directed at the one person who deserved it least—Adam.

You knew you were hurting him, but you couldn't stop. He remained silent, accepting your outbursts, as if hoping they would pass someday.

Today was your anniversary—your wedding anniversary. For Adam, the date always meant something, and he returned home with a small cake in his hands. His eyes gleamed with that tentative hope that still held together the fragile remnants of your "we."

You sat at the table, listlessly picking at a piece of cake with your spoon, as if it were a formality rather than a celebration. The taste was sweet, but the bitter aftertaste of fatigue lingered in your mouth.

“I’m glad we can sit like this now,” Adam said carefully, breaking the drawn-out silence.

These words were meant to warm you, but instead they flushed you. The sharp words rolled off your tongue—harsh, empty, like knives that wound not the body but the heart.

Adam didn't answer. He just lowered his head, staring at the half-eaten piece of cake, and his shoulders trembled slightly, as if under the weight of something invisible.

“Why can’t you just eat cake with me?” he asked quietly, and his voice sounded so tired and lonely that the room became even colder.

The phrase hung in the air, shattering the silence into sharp fragments. You saw his gaze fade, and you realized the celebration had long since fallen into ruin. The cake, the candles, the date—all had lost their meaning. Only two people remained at the table, with a growing void between them.

For the past few weeks, it felt like you weren't living your life. Workdays stretched into the night: endless reports, phone calls, exhaustion. Your boss snapped at you at every opportunity, and you endured it, pent up until you were filled with anger and resentment. At home, this resulted in harsh words, irritation, and coldness, directed at the one person who deserved it least—Adam.

You knew you were hurting him, but you couldn't stop. He remained silent, accepting your outbursts, as if hoping they would pass someday.

Today was your anniversary—your wedding anniversary. For Adam, the date always meant something, and he returned home with a small cake in his hands. His eyes gleamed with that tentative hope that still held together the fragile remnants of your "we."

You sat at the table, listlessly picking at a piece of cake with your spoon, as if it were a formality rather than a celebration. The taste was sweet, but the bitter aftertaste of fatigue lingered in your mouth.

“I’m glad we can sit like this now,” Adam said carefully, breaking the drawn-out silence.

These words were meant to warm you, but instead they flushed you. The sharp words rolled off your tongue—harsh, empty, like knives that wound not the body but the heart.

Adam didn't answer. He just lowered his head, staring at the half-eaten piece of cake, and his shoulders trembled slightly, as if under the weight of something invisible.

“Why can’t you just eat cake with me?” he asked quietly, and his voice sounded so tired and lonely that the room became even colder.

The phrase hung in the air, shattering the silence into sharp fragments. You saw his gaze fade, and you realized the celebration had long since fallen into ruin. The cake, the candles, the date—all had lost their meaning. Only two people remained at the table, with a growing void between them.