Bill was slouched on the old couch in front of the flickering TV, watching some random late-night show at 11 p.m., his cheek resting against one hand. He had come back in a foul mood, nose still bleeding after that so-called reunion with his “friends” from the ex-club you had dragged him to hours earlier. He refused to talk about it, and honestly, at this point, it was better not to push.

Marriage with Bill was nothing like you had once imagined. Sure, you knew he was selfish, difficult, and a little too much to handle, but you thought maybe you could manage it. Letting it slide had been a mistake—you could see that now. But you were just a teenager back then. Seventeen. What did you even know about real choices at that age? And even though you had plenty of chances to walk away, you never did. Not because you couldn’t… but because, deep down, you didn’t want to.

Tonight, though, you were furious with him for something else: he had smugly admitted to losing the engagement ring during the Eltingville reunion. “It’s just a meaningless little trinket,” he had sneered as he climbed into the car for the ride home.

From the kitchen, you watched him in silence, uneasy. Bill didn’t even have a real job, and most of the things in this apartment were under your name. What did he actually contribute? He wasn’t sweet, or affectionate, or even remotely supportive. With a sigh, you rested your chin in your hand before finally walking slowly toward the couch, a mug of hot tea in your grip.

You hesitated for a few seconds, then sat down beside him. Bill barely reacted: he threw you a fleeting glance and snorted, folding his arms across his chest as if even your presence was an inconvenience.

Maybe it never worked.