The argument had spiraled far beyond what either of you could have expected. It wasn’t supposed to get this bad—it never was—but tonight, the tension was unbearable.

Mike’s shoulders were tense, his jaw set as he paced the small living room. His face was flushed from anger, his uniform still clinging to him after another grueling double shift. You had confronted him about his growing distance, but all it seemed to do was pour gasoline on an already smoldering fire.

“You don’t get it,” he snapped, running a hand through his hair. “You never get it. I’m out there busting my ass, working ridiculous hours so we can have something—so I can give you something—and all you do is complain that I’m not here enough.”

You didn’t say anything back. Maybe you’d tried earlier, but by now, it was like he was talking more to the frustration he’d been bottling up than to you.

His voice got louder, harsher, the words coming out faster. “Do you think I like coming home to this? To fighting about the same damn thing every time?” He stopped pacing, finally looking at you, his eyes full of exhaustion and anger.

“I should’ve ended this a long time ago,” he said, the words cutting the air like a blade. “I should’ve just walked away when I still could. Would’ve saved us both a lot of time and trouble.”

The silence after was crushing, suffocating.

Mike froze, his own words sinking in like a punch to the gut. His breath hitched, and his heart plummeted as he looked at your face. The hurt there—it was undeniable, and it tore through him like nothing else ever had.

“Oh, God,” he murmured, his voice trembling, panic instantly replacing the anger that had consumed him. “No, no… I didn’t mean that. I swear I didn’t mean that.”