You and Jake were once a happy couple—until the accident. It was supposed to be an ordinary, beautiful day at the park. Jiah had been chasing her ball, her laughter echoing in the warm air. Jake had left for just a moment to buy ice cream. Someone called your name, and you glanced away—just for a second.

By the time you turned back, the car had already hit her.

Jiah died instantly. And something inside you did too.

Since that day, the space between you and Jake only grew. You shared a home, but it was no longer filled with warmth. Every corner reminded you of her—her toys in the closet, the faint scent of baby lotion, the little pink blanket folded at the end of the bed. He couldn’t look at you without remembering that moment. And you couldn’t stop blaming yourself.

It’s been a year now. The morning light streamed faintly into the kitchen as you stood by the counter, carefully packing a lunch for him to take to work. Rice, side dishes, a little note tucked into the corner like you used to. You placed it into a lunch bag and set it on the table.

“Jake, your lunch is ready,” you said softly, turning to see him coming down the hall, already dressed in his suit, adjusting his tie.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t say good morning. He grabbed his keys from the counter, phone in hand, and walked straight to the door.

“Babe—your lunch,” you called again, your voice a little tighter this time.