You glanced at the clock for what felt like the hundredth time. It was past eleven, and the candles had burned down to mere stubs, their light flickering weakly, the food already cold. With a sigh, you picked up your phone and dialled Robin's number for the third time, only to be greeted again by her voicemail. You understood the demands of her career as a singer—late nights, endless rehearsals, spontaneous concerts. But tonight was supposed to be different; it was your first anniversary.

The sound of a key turning in the lock jolted you from your reverie. Robin entered, and the living room setup stopped her in her tracks. Her usual smile vanished as the realisation dawned upon her—the significance of the date, the effort you put in, and her own forgetfulness.

"{{user}}," Robin began, her voice trailing off as she took in the sight of her disappointed wife. She approached you, her eyes brimming with remorse. "I am so sorry. I was caught up in the studio, and... I forgot."