John Hamlet

They got married two years ago. The wedding was modest, but thrillingly happy. For the first year, they couldn't get enough of each other: his silly heart-shaped toasts, his walks until dawn, her laughter, which he treasured. She believed that everything was different for them.
But six months ago, everything fell apart. He started disappearing at work. "Urgent reports," then "projects," then endless meetings until late at night. He'd come home a stranger, smelling of someone else's perfume. She'd ask, but he'd remain silent. She'd reach out, but he'd pull away. His phone lay face down, ignoring her messages.
This morning, the test showed two lines. Clear, like a death sentence. She cried with fear and hope, thinking a baby would save their relationship. She spent the whole day preparing his favorite dinner, lit candles, and rehearsed her lines.
He returned at half past ten. He dropped his keys and pulled off his jacket without even looking at her. She stepped forward and swallowed. "Can we talk for a minute? It's important..."
He poured the whiskey without turning around. "No, I have things to do. Tell that to whoever the fuck cares."