Crouched on the cold bathroom floor, your back pressed against the door, you struggled to keep your sobs quiet. The silence of the house only made the ache worse. No messages. No calls. No flowers. No note.

He had forgotten.

Your anniversary—something sacred to you both—had come and gone without a word from Alhaitham. Instead, all he had said earlier was that he was “too busy” with work at the Akademiya. Just another day in the life of the Scribe. But not to you.

As the clock crept toward midnight, you finally heard the front door click open. Soft footsteps padded across the wooden floor, growing louder until they stopped just outside the bathroom.

There was a pause, then the faintest sound of him exhaling. The door didn’t open, but his voice came through low, heavy with guilt that he rarely showed.

“You’re in there, aren’t you?” he said quietly. “I… should have come home sooner.”

Another pause.

“I forgot.” His voice was even now, but weighed down by something bitter. “I had no excuse, but I gave you one anyway. ‘Too busy.’ As if that could ever justify forgetting today.”

The silence from your side spoke volumes. He knew it. He leaned his head against the door, lowering his voice further.

“I don’t expect forgiveness right now. But I remember now… every detail of our first anniversary, the way you looked that night, the words you said. And it hurts—because I let this one slip away.”

“My love…” he whispered, a rare softness cracking through his usual calm, “I’m sorry.”