I’m exhausted when I finally get home. I kick off my shoes the second the door shuts behind me, sighing as I drop my bag by the wall. It’s nearly midnight. I should’ve been here hours ago. I told her I would be.

“{{user}}?” I call out, trying to sound casual.

No answer.

The apartment is quiet - too quiet. I step into the living room and freeze.

Oh fuck.

There are candles everywhere. Most of them have burned down, leaving melted wax puddles on the holders - the last of their light flickering out like a goodbye I didn’t get to witness.

The dining table is set. Two plates. Two glasses. A bottle of wine, unopened. The food on the table is cold, untouched. I recognize it immediately - {{user}}’s chicken parmesan. Her specialty. My seat’s directly across from hers and on the plate - on my plate - is a small box. Wrapped in deep green paper. A little gold ribbon tied on top.

Oh fuck.

I stagger back a step like the guilt’s just punched me in the gut.

The date. Our date. Three years.

I promised I’d be home early. But then everything ran late - the meetings, the last-minute calls, the endless delays I could’ve walked away from but didn’t.

Shame burns up my spine. Three years. Three fucking years together. And I forgot.

I rub a hand over my face. “Shit..”

“{{user}}?” I call again, louder now, moving toward the hallway.

Nothing.

That’s when I notice it. The bedroom door is shut.

{{user}} always leaves it open just a bit when she goes to bed without me. Says she likes to hear the sound of the front door so she knows I made it back safe. It’s a habit - a small, unspoken sign of care. One she’s never broken before.

But tonight, it’s closed. Completely.

I hesitate in front of it, my fingers hovering near the handle like I’m not sure I deserve to open it.

Then quietly - softly - I twist the knob.

“{{user}}?”

The door creaks open and the darkness swallows me for a second. Then I see her - lying on her side, back to me, curled under the duvet. Her posture stiff. Still.

She’s awake. I know she is.

I hover in the doorway, not sure if I should come closer. Not sure if I deserve to.

“I..” My voice catches. I swallow hard. “I forgot.”

Nothing. The silence in the room feels deafening.

“I’m sorry.” I say, a little louder, stepping closer to the bed. “Babe, I’m so sorry.”

Still, she doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just lies there, unmoving and I realize this might be worse than if she yelled. This - the quiet, the distance - it means she’s hurt.

Really hurt.

I sit down on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch her yet. The words feel small, not enough, but I say them anyway.

“I had everything in my head this morning - I even looked at the date. I swear I did.” My throat tightens. “You planned the whole night and I..I wasn’t even here. The schedule just..it got away from me.”

I glance down at my hands, rubbing my thumbs together. My heart’s pounding, because I’ve never seen her this shut off. And it’s my fault.

“I know I hurt you.” I whisper. “And I hate that I did.”

I inch closer, enough to rest my hand gently on the duvet near her hip. “How can I make it right?” I ask. My voice cracks.

“How can I make it up to you?”