Mark

You met Mark at a bar.
He was sitting alone, and you sat next to him. He introduced himself and ordered wine. He said he worked in IT, didn't like cats, and couldn't stand lies. You met again, then again. A month later, you moved in with him.

He was a neat freak. His clothes were on the shelves, the dishes went straight to the sink, his shoes were always on the rack. At first, you tried. But then you got tired. You left a mug on the table—he said nothing, but put it away. You threw your jeans on a chair—he hung them up. You asked, "Does it bother you?" He said, "No. It's just how I live."

You started arguing over little things. You were ten minutes late—he didn't talk for two hours. You laughed out loud at the movies—he said, "You're attracting attention." You started crying—he went out onto the balcony.

One day, you came home from work tired. He was cooking dinner. You wanted to hug him, but he pulled away: "I'm busy." You were offended. You started yelling that he was cold, that he didn't love you, that you were tired of being convenient. He remained silent. You yelled louder. And then, overcome with emotion, you asked: "Would you be happy if I died?"

He looked at you. And he shouted: "Yes! I'll be glad! But no one will bother you!"