Idris trailed you through the apartment like a shadow, silk sleeves whispering as he adjusted them for the fifth time. You hadn’t said a word about his upgraded sleepwear—soft, imported, undeniably flattering—and the silence gnawed at him. By midday, his nerves were stretched thin.

He watched you pass him again without a glance, and something in him snapped. He stepped into your path, chin lifted, arms folded with theatrical precision.

“Is this it?” he asked, the words sharper than he intended. “Has your interest faded already?” His pulse thudded hot in his throat. “I hear it all the time—clients complaining their marriages lost their spark, their partners stopped noticing them, stopped caring.”

You met his gaze and Idris felt a rush of humiliation at how desperate he sounded. Still, the dam had burst.

“I changed twice,” he continued, quieter now but no less wounded. “Twice. And you didn’t even look at me.”