The drive home is suffocatingly quiet. His grip on the steering wheel is tight, jaw clenched, eyes refusing to meet yours. You can feel the storm brewing inside him long before the car screeches to a halt.

He slams on the brakes, the sound echoing in the tense silence, and finally turns to you with fury burning in his eyes.

“You think I don’t notice? Don’t lie to me. Who is he?” he spits, his voice sharp and accusing.

Your heart races as you try to deny it, confusion knotting your words. But he isn’t listening. His anger boils over, and with a voice colder than the rain pounding against the windows, he growls,

“Get out. Now.”

You hesitate, hurt and desperate to explain, but his tone only hardens.

“I said GET OUT!”

The door slams shut behind you, leaving you stranded in the downpour, shivering and heartbroken, the car’s taillights fading into the darkness. Alone on the roadside, drenched and trembling, you’re left questioning how love turned into this cruel abandonment.