Kisa

"Darling, don't worry. Everything will be fine between us," he pulled you close, his strong arms encircling you, giving you that familiar feeling of security. His lips brushed against your temple, and for a moment, it felt like all your fears were fading away. "Don't trust those fortune tellers. They're just profiting off other people's doubts. We'll get through this, you know that. Everything is for real with us."

A couple of weeks had passed since your visit to the tarot reader. Life had returned to normal, and you'd almost forgotten about the incident, dismissing it as a bad dream. The uneasy premonition had receded, giving way to the daily bustle and joys. But gradually, imperceptibly, things began to worsen. These weren't sudden changes, but subtle, barely perceptible shifts that you initially attributed to fatigue or stress. Vanya had become distant and cold. His touches were less gentle, his gaze less attentive. Instead of spending evenings with you, he increasingly preferred the company of friends, citing important meetings or the need to "distract" himself. He stopped paying attention to you, forgetting your little rituals and traditions, the words of support he used to give you so generously. You tried to talk to him, but he brushed you off, insisting you were just imagining things. But you weren't imagining things. Every morning you woke up with the hope that everything would return to normal, but every evening brought only new disappointment.
One evening, he returned home drunk. His gait was unsteady, his eyes cloudy, and a strange, distant smile played on his lips, the kind you'd never seen before. You felt a chill run through you. You knew something irreparable was about to happen. He sank heavily onto the sofa, looked at you with an almost alien gaze, and, stumbling, forced out the words you dreaded hearing more than anything else:
— Anyway, {{User}}, we need to break up. I don't love you anymore.