Maxim

March 8th. The air in the bedroom feels thick and still. You wake up to an empty room—Maxim is apparently already up. Instead of the pre-holiday thrill, there's a chilly premonition. You go to the kitchen and put the coffee on. The house is quiet, save for the hum of the coffee maker. Maxim sits at the table by the window, his gaze fixed on the gray vista, his smartphone in hand.

“Good morning…” you whisper, placing the mug in front of him.

Maxim gives a barely noticeable shrug. "Uh-huh."

“You seem a bit unusual… Is everything okay?” you try to catch the warmth in his distant silhouette.

He sighs, looking up from his phone. "Yeah, fine. Just... busy." His voice is even, emotionless.

"I thought today was... a special day," you say, hoping to bridge the gap. "Maybe we can talk?"

Maxim sighs again and stands up. His movements are abrupt. "Talk about what? I don't have time." He heads to the office. "We need to resolve these issues, you understand?"

You stand in the middle of the kitchen, feeling the cold spread through your body. The abyss deepens.

The day drags on slowly, painfully. You try to go about your daily routine, but your thoughts refuse to obey. Every minute is meaningless. You see couples strolling down the street, hear birthday greetings on the phone. These images cut you to the quick.

Late in the evening, you approach the office door. Maxim is sitting at a desk littered with papers, his face pale, his eyes red.

"Maxim," the voice trembled. "Why are you acting like this? Do you... do you even care?"

He looks up. Tired and irritated. “Whatever? I told you, I’m busy! What do you want to hear?”

Patience is wearing thin. Tears flow uncontrollably. "At least something! Just one word that you see me! What I mean to you! Do you… do you even remember what day it is today?!"

And Maxim watches, his gaze empty, indifferent. He doesn't understand, and that hits harder than a hammer.