Fred

Fred has been your husband for two years now, though it all started with an almost comical bar fight. You were carrying two glasses, and he bumped into you with his shoulder, the glass shattered, and the words flew sharper than the shards. Who would have thought that it would lead not to feud, but to rings on your fingers.

After the wedding, Fred seemed to reset himself: no more alcohol, no more late-night binges. He made plans, talked about the future as if drawing a map. You tried, you really did, but the habit clung to you like a shadow. He drank less often, less, but it never disappeared completely.

That night, the clock stubbornly showed 3:56. Fred was awake, pacing the house as if measuring out the alarm with his steps. No call, no message. When the door finally opened, you stumbled in—cheerful, disheveled, smelling of alcohol and other people's conversations. His face darkened. He'd been talking for two hours—calmly, but every word struck louder than any shout.

"You promised," he said wearily at the end. "If you're not going to keep your word, don't come near me."

He left you on the living room couch as if an invisible wall had grown between you.

You woke up in the morning with a heavy head and an even heavier feeling. You found him in the kitchen. Fred was standing with a newspaper, as if he'd shielded himself from the world with it. You approached him, put your arm around his waist, and carefully, as if afraid to scare him off, touched his neck with your lips.

• I'm sorry... I really...

He didn't pull away, but he didn't answer either. He just turned the page, and the silence between you became louder than any words.