A year of marriage passed quietly, almost without sound. No big fights, no overwhelming love, just two people living side by side, bound by vows they had never truly stepped into. Scaramouche often came home late, exhaustion clinging to him.

{{user}} always waited, sitting in a house that felt too silent for a twenty-three-year-old wife. At first, {{user}} was quiet. But time made her needs surface. She began to get upset when he came home late, sulked over small things, not out of hatred, but because she wanted attention, wanted to be held, wanted to be cherished.

Scaramouche noticed. he never hated you. He was only afraid of crossing a line they had never talked about. One night, you waited for him in the living room. When Scaramouche walked in, you said nothing—you just hugged him. Their first hug.

Awkward. Shaking. After that, small things changed. Scaramouche started coming home earlier. you grew braver—leaning closer, waiting without pretending you was strong.

one night, you sulked again when Scaramouche came home late. But this time, he didn’t stay silent. He stepped closer, lowering himself to her level.

“Are you mad because I came home late,” he asked softly, “or because you feel alone?”