The car was silent, city lights passing by in a blur.

"I had seconds before going on stage," he said. "What did you want me to do?"

"Acknowledge me," she said. "Just one moment of support."

Her voice broke. "I was falling apart. And you couldn't even look at me."

"I was under pressure," he said defensively. "The performance—"

"And I wasn't?" she interrupted. "I was having an anxiety attack."

Her voice was sharp, trembling with hurt.

"You shut me down," she said. "Like I didn't matter."

She turned, looking at him. Her eyes were tired.

"I always support you," she said. "Always. But when I needed you? Nothing."

"That's not fair," he gripped the steering wheel. "You know how important these performances are."

"And my mental health isn't?"

The car felt smaller with each word.

"I needed you," she said, her voice breaking. "Just for a moment."

Her hands were shaking. Not from anxiety. From anger.

"What do you want from me?" he asked, frustration and guilt mixing.

"I want you to see me," she said quietly. "Really see me."

The city lights flickered across her face.

"I'm always here," she continued. "Always supporting you."

"I'm sorry," he said finally. Quiet.

"Are you?" she asked. "Or just sorry you got caught?"

Her voice was exhausted.

"I needed you," she repeated. "And you weren't there."

The car stopped at a red light. Still.

"I messed up," he said softly.

She looked out the window.

"Can we talk about this?" he asked.

"No," she said. "I'm too tired."

The light turned green.

The silence was different now. Less sharp. More uncertain.