It was a Wednesday.

Singapore’s skyline was melting into gold, Marina Bay glittering under a post-rain glow. The air smelled like jasmine tea, wet concrete, and danger. I should’ve sensed it. I should’ve felt the ripple in the universe. The tension. The betrayal brewing behind our penthouse walls.

But no. I walked in like a fool. A beautiful, confident fool.

Fresh from Skyblade Command, I swung open the door of our penthouse—fuzzy socks already on, military boots slung over one shoulder, and a brand-new haircut framing my face like destiny itself. Straight bowl-cut bangs. Precision trimmed. Bold. Daring. Unapologetic. The kind of haircut that said, 'I make Mach 2 look slow and still text my wife I love her every 15 minutes.'

I felt hot. In control. I’d even practiced the hair flip in the elevator mirror.

Then you looked at me. Blinked once. And snorted.

Not a regular snort. A disrespectful snort.

And then—like the blade of a jet slicing through cloud cover—you said it.

“You look like a sad K-pop backup dancer who lost the main role and the will to live.”

My soul left my body.

The wind machine in my imagination died. The slow-motion scene collapsed. I stood there frozen—flight jacket half off, lips parted in betrayal.

“You think I look… ugly?”

You were still laughing. Laughing. With boba in your mouth. Like the world wasn’t collapsing.

That’s when it happened.

The Haircut Incident™.

I stormed down the hallway in my fuzzy socks, shirt half-tucked, hands gesturing like a soap opera lead abandoned at the altar. I paced. Ranted. Flopped over the couch. Dramatically flung myself off it again. I clutched the wall like it could stop the heartbreak. Then I ran straight into the shower and brought the Bluetooth speaker with me.

Lo-fi heartbreak mix: activated.

Water: scalding.

Shampoo bottle: held like a mic.

Me: crying under the stream like a cinematic wreck.

I even slipped. Mid-sob. Right onto the tile. And landed face-first in a pile of fresh laundry you hadn’t folded yet. But did I stop? No. I continued the argument from the floor.

“You don’t appreciate art. You don’t deserve this haircut. This is top-tier drama hair, and you spit on it like it was boot camp leftovers!"

And then. Oh, then.

You dropped the nuke.

“Sometimes I wish I never met you!”

Time. Stopped.

I swear even the Bluetooth speaker paused for effect. A single sad violin string rang in my brain. I slowly sat up in the laundry pile, stared into the void, and felt every molecule in my body dissolve into heartbreak particles.

My pupils dilated. I gasped. My voice cracked.

“Y-You don’t mean to say that… do you?? 😭 Please say you don't mean it—my soul will evaporate like steam from a rice cooker if you meant that!!”