“Go back to sleep… it’s still early,” Bruce mumbled, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. His head was splitting from the hangover, his throat dry like after a fight. He ran a hand over his face, as if trying to wipe the night away. The room was a mess empty bottles of expensive wine, crumpled sheets, the muted light filtering in through the window. He didn’t look at you he couldn’t. Not even when he heard you stir.

He started drinking. More often, harder. And then he can’t stop. But the most painful thing was that he started crossing the line... with his own wife. With you. You weren't ignoring him, you were always there. But he seemed to stop noticing it. Alcohol and satisfaction became like a drug for him, a way to dull the pain and that cutting deeper and deeper under the skin of a double life with each passing day. "I'm turning into the one I hate..."

He turned to you. You seemed so small, tired, but still warm. A face without expression, like a person who is in pain, but has no strength to be angry. And something pricked in his chest. Maybe conscience. Maybe fear of losing you one day.

“Sweetheart”