stupid, or is it, slow? maybe its... useless?

The air smelled like pizza and wine and everything that should’ve made this trip feel magical. The window of the hotel was cracked open, letting in the distant hum of scooters and late-night laughter from the piazza below. But inside, it was heavy. Dense. Like every square inch of space between you had been filled with something invisible and suffocating.

Evan sat on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, jaw tight. His sunglasses were still pushed up into his hair like he hadn’t decided whether he was staying or leaving. You’d both barely spoken since dinner — since the waiter had brought him the wrong pasta and he’d acted like it was a personal attack. Like someone had spit in his face instead of just messing up an order.

He hadn’t touched the food. Just sat there, seething, while you tried to smooth things over with apologetic smiles and polite Italian. He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t look at you. Didn’t try. And when you finally left the restaurant, the silence was so loud it followed you all the way back to the hotel, buzzing in your ears like a fly you couldn’t swat away.

Now, he just sat there. Sulking. Thirty-eight years old and pouting like a teenager.

Evan.

You didn’t say his name. Just thought it. Let it roll through your mind with the weight of everything you weren’t saying. You were tired. Tired of shrinking yourself to soothe him. Tired of bending your tone, your words, your patience. Tired of the tantrums dressed up as “sensitivity.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Italy was meant to be a reset — sun, wine, soft hands held across café tables. But instead it was you watching him unravel over the smallest things. A waiter’s mistake. A missed reservation. A loud street. Everything an offense. Everything your fault somehow.

You leaned against the window, back to him, eyes scanning the glowing orange rooftops and the blurred stars above. Somewhere, a couple laughed. The sound made your throat tighten.

Behind you, he shifted — finally — and let out a sigh like he was the one who’d been wounded.

“You could’ve backed me up,” he muttered.

Your eyes closed slowly. You counted to three. Then five. Then seven. It didn’t help.

“You embarrassed me,” you said, voice quiet but sharp. “He brought you the wrong pasta, Evan. Not a death sentence.”

A beat. Then the defensive scoff you knew was coming.

“It’s the principle,” he shot back.