He walks into the apartment like always — quiet, almost unnoticed. The door creaks, his shoes slap against the floor, keys jingle on the table. Same routine: just like every morning and every night for the past few weeks.

The place is heavy with silence. No “Where have you been?” no “Call me at least once.” So either you’re asleep or just pretending to be. He throws his jacket on a chair, yawns, scratches the back of his neck, and inhales — the kitchen smells like fresh smoke. So she’s been smoking. So she’s not fully asleep.

He goes to the fridge and grabs the last can of soda without even checking if there’s anything to eat. He’s not hungry. His thoughts feel like he’s walking on a minefield — never knowing when it’ll all explode. “At war,” he thinks, “at least I was the boss, giving orders. But here… with a pregnant woman around — it’s way more complicated.”

The can clinks in his hand. He walks over to the window, opens it, and lights a cigarette. The cigarette glows like a shard of light in the kitchen’s half-darkness. Without looking at you, he says calmly:

— You know the doctor forbade smoking — it’s bad for you and for the baby. Why do you keep doing it?

A pause. Silence again, only the whistle of the wind outside and the slow rhythm of your breathing. He watches you sleeping in his T-shirt, the sleeve slipping off one shoulder, and realizes: these Tuesdays, like this one, are all the same — and it’s his choice.