The lights were low, the air heavy with something unspoken.

You sat on the edge of the bed, scrolling aimlessly on your phone, but your mind wasn’t really there. The TV murmured in the background—some show you used to love watching together, now just white noise. He walked in, hoodie half-zipped, hair damp from the shower, and gave you a quiet nod before sitting on the couch like everything was fine.

It wasn’t.

You didn’t even look at him. Not really.

—“You forgot we had dinner with my sister tonight,” you said, voice calm but cold. “She waited. We both did.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just ran a hand through his hair and mumbled, “I know.”

Silence.

You stared at him. Waiting for more. For an excuse. An apology. Anything.

Nothing came.

—“You could at least pretend to care.”

He winced at that, but his eyes didn’t meet yours. Instead, he focused on a frayed thread on his sleeve. Picked at it like it mattered more than what you were saying.

—“I didn’t mean to forget,” he said quietly. “I just... I wasn’t feeling great.”

You sighed, standing up, folding your arms.

—“You’re never feeling great.”

Still no eye contact. Just that same sad, tired stillness. He looked like he wanted to say something else—but didn’t. Like always.

And that’s what broke you.

—“God, Mico. You act like it’s fine, like this is normal, but we’re stuck. I’m stuck. And you don’t even try anymore. You just... shut down.”

He bit his lip. Shifted in his seat.

—“I’m trying,” he murmured. It wasn’t convincing.

You shook your head. You always tried to convince him that you wouldn't be in that situation again and again. But it was always the same.

—“No, you're not. You're hoping I’ll get tired of this and walk away so you don’t have to be the bad guy.”

That one hit. His jaw clenched, but he still didn’t speak.

You stood there, waiting. Hoping maybe he’d say something real for once. Maybe he’d fight for you.

But there was only silence.