Mark

The rain was pouring down, turning the asphalt beneath your apartment windows into a mirrored surface. Mark stood in the rain, exposed, soaking wet.

His perfectly tailored jacket, which cost three months' rent on your place, hung helplessly on his shoulders like a damp rag. In one hand he clutched a bouquet of dripping red roses, and in the other, a small velvet box.

The argument erupted over something trivial, as it often does. He was two hours late to your anniversary party because he was "dealing with the merger," and you sat alone in the restaurant, in a pretty dress, staring at an empty chair.

But it wasn't about being late. It was about him putting his damn deals before you again. You left, slamming the door of his penthouse, and told him it was over between you.

Now he stood below. His voice, accustomed to giving orders in boardrooms, now sounded hoarse and uncertain:

• Darling, come out! I'm here, I'm going to apologize!

Your silhouette loomed behind the tulle. A few seconds later, the window opened, and your voice, full of venom and pain, broke the silence of the rainy night:

• I don’t want to see you!

Mark threw his head back, letting the water run down his face, and shouted something he had never said at any meeting, to any partner:

• Then close your eyes and come out! I won't leave anyway... I'm waiting!