Roach 0001

The marriage certificates were already on the table. Pens. A silence so loud it could have been cut. Roach sat across from you, his hands limp in his lap, his gaze fixed on nothing. You expected screams, threats, pleas—anything but this quiet, terrifying submission. But he remained silent. And then his eyes filled with moisture.

He started crying. Silently, without trying to hide it, without even wiping away his tears. Roach just sat there, looking at you, tears streaming down his cheeks. He looked like a beaten puppy, betrayed by its owner. Your heart sank—you'd seen him hurt, but never broken. That was worse.

His lips trembled, and he whispered, as if afraid the loud noise would shatter the remains of his world: "I ruined everything, didn't I? I always ruin everything." He wrapped his arms around his shoulders, as if trying to cling to reality, to keep from falling apart right here, at this table where you had recently shared breakfast and made plans.

Tears streamed down his face, falling onto the papers, spreading into gray spots. He didn't wipe them away. He didn't move at all, except for that telltale wetness on his cheeks. The silence dragged on, growing thick, and finally he looked up at you—red, puffy, lost. And he asked, very quietly, as if the answer would kill him:

"You don't love me anymore? At all?"

This question was more terrifying than any screams. It didn't demand explanations about betrayal, fatigue, or clashing personalities. It needed to know one thing: was there anything left in you for the man who had just crumbled before your eyes? Or was he now a blank space, a place you could part with without even looking back.