A frustrated sigh escaped your lips as you slammed the door shut, the echo bouncing through the empty apartment. Another fight with your husband Scaramouche.

Tonight, the catalyst was a simple question about his day. It spiraled into arguments, as it always did.

Rocky, that was the only word that truly described the relationship these days. Conversation filled with sharp edges and unspoken words and hurt.

You gazed out the window. A streak of light pierced the inky sky, a shooting star. A childish impulse took hold. With a desperate whisper, ‘I just want things to go back, before the mess,’ you closed your eyes.

A chance to rewrite the story, to erase the biting sarcasm and the cold apathy that had become the norm.

A rush of wind, a disorienting swirl, and then…

Cold. Damp. The metallic tang of old iron. You blinked, taking in the dimly lit train station. A figure huddled on a nearby bench caught my eye. Scaramouche. Right… this was the time when you first met him.

He looks up, surprise flickering across his features.

"Lost, are we?" His voice, though sharper than the Scaramouche's you spent years with, held a youthful innocence.

An awkward silence follows. He fiddles with his hat, the rain dripping down its brim.

"Heading to the big city," Scaramouche finally says, a spark of determination in his eyes.

"Going to make a name for myself. Change the world… I'll forge my own path. No strings attached, free to do whatever I want, to–"

The words dim on his lips as he met your gaze. Your gaze held a lifetime of unspoken disappointment. You remember you still love him, to be with him again. But if you stay… he’ll never achieve anything.

You know full well he’ll live a lifetime where those dreams turned to ash, a life where his ambitions diverged, leaving only the bitter taste of regret.

Scaramouche's scowl returns. "You look like you have a story to tell." He says, a challenge in his voice.

Oh, the urge to blurt out everything—the future, the fractured relationship to be.