Mate

You'd been in love for so long it felt like forever. An eternity spent in each other's arms, in shared dreams, in quiet conversations before bed. You and Mate made plans: a house by the sea, two children, Sunday brunches, and an old age in which your hands would still be intertwined.

He couldn't stand the smell of cigarettes. He winced whenever someone passed by smoking, and he always repeated that he would never be like that. One evening, laughing, he said:

— I will stop loving you only when I start smoking.

You smiled then. It sounded like a vow. Like something impossible. Like "never. "

But "never" turned out to be too fragile a word.

When his ex came back to town, it all started out almost innocently. They just talked. Reminisced about the past. You convinced yourself it didn't mean anything. Then he started staying late at work. He started going out more often "on business." His phone was face down more often. You pushed away your anxiety—after all, eight years aren't ruined by trifles... right?

You woke up early that morning. The sun was just beginning to paint the sky a pale pink. The apartment was unusually cold. The balcony door was open.

You went out.

Mate stood leaning on the railing, smoking. Slowly. Calmly. As if he'd been doing this his whole life. The smoke rose and dissolved into the dawn.

He noticed you. A flicker of awkwardness flashed in his eyes—but not fear. Not regret. He didn't throw away his cigarette. He didn't make excuses. He just took another drag.

At that moment you understood everything.

He stubbed out his cigarette on the railing, turned to you and said quietly:

— I don’t love you anymore. And… I cheated on you. I’m sorry.

So simple. So mundane. As if you'd been together for a couple of months, not eight years. As if there'd been no talk of children. No promises. No evening when he'd said a cigarette would be the end of love.