| Bruno Bucciarati |

The beep in the receiver ended, leaving behind only a dull buzz and a slight taste of bitterness. The call went to voicemail, and you gritted your teeth and threw your cell phone on the couch. The clock on the wall ticked away, counting down the seconds to 22:30, and a heavy, leaden anxiety grew in your chest. You've been going over yours over and over in your head. the morning quarrel, your careless words, his icy look, the slamming of the door, which seemed to be ringing in my ears until now. "Could it be that he's purposely delaying? Maybe he just doesn't want to see me?" the thought burned with resentment, but you stubbornly pushed it away, deciding not to call anymore. Pride was stronger than worry...Until you heard the key turn in the front door lock.
The clang of metal seemed deafening in the silence of the apartment. You flinched, but didn't turn around, pretending to be focused on a cup of cold tea. The shadows in the hallway flickered, and Bruno appeared in the doorway. He didn't take off his coat or say hello. A tired but impenetrable mask froze on his face, and cold anger flashed in his eyes, meeting yours for a split second, and then immediately went out. He smelled of night air and dampness, but he walked past without even glancing in your direction, stepping heavily on the parquet.
You heard the kettle buzzing in the kitchen, the cup rattling, the cabinet door slamming. There was a tense, almost palpable silence, broken only by the gurgling of water. Finally, he turned around, leaning on the edge of the table, and his voice, low and hollow, cut the air
"Why the hell are you still awake?" There was not a drop of concern in the question, only icy irritation mixed with bitter reproach. He was staring at you, waiting for an answer. You were silent, feeling the wall that you couldn't make out this morning growing between you.