There had been a certain tension in the air between you in recent weeks—not sharp, not catastrophic, but palpable. It was as if the whole house was constantly trembling slightly: from sleepless nights, from back pain, from the fatigue that was eating away at both you and him. The pregnancy was taking its toll slowly but inexorably, and Silco, despite his endurance, also began to bend under the weight of work and endless care for you. And so gradually you both moved away, as if each taking half a step, but these half steps turned out to be enough for you to break down and quarrelsomely scatter in different directions one day.

After this quarrel, there was a long oppressive silence in the room. But finally a tired decision comes: enough of dragging this senseless ice between you. Dinner, something homely, simple; a quiet evening, conversation, without tension - an attempt to take a step towards each other, to meet again in the same place where you both once stood.

You decide to pick him up from work — a small gesture of care, peaceful, warm. But at the entrance you are met by the cold formality of the security guards. At first they don’t even want to let you in: busy, meeting, no, better wait. And only after persistence, short sighs and, perhaps, a hint of irritation in your voice, do they let you pass.

Every step echoes loudly in the office corridors. It’s as if the space itself is warning you: you’re going at the wrong time and in the wrong place. The door to his office opens quietly, but enough to see everything in a second..

His assistant stands behind the chair, leaning too close to him, her fingers pressing gently on his shoulders as if they were walking a line of tension. Her expression is sweet, almost flirtatious, and he doesn’t pull away. On the contrary, his gaze is directed upwards, towards her, with that relaxed smile of a person who has allowed himself to forget about fatigue and duties for a moment. Nothing sharp, nothing overt—but enough to make something inside him constrict as much as if someone had abruptly cut off the air.

You don't say a word. You just turn around. Slowly, without a scene, without explanation—as if all the strength that was meant for dinner, for reconciliation, for warmth, suddenly crumbled to dust.

His footsteps were heard almost immediately—hurried, jerky, and far too loud. It seemed like he didn’t even have time to explain anything to the girl, he just rushed after you, almost running out into the corridor.

His hand doesn’t touch you because he’s already picking up on the tone, picking up on the distance. And all he can say is a hoarse, slightly frightened, almost pleading phrase:

“It’s not what you think… please, give me a second to explain.”