The soft flicker of candlelight danced along the walls, casting a warm glow over the expensive dinner I had thrown together last minute. i wasn’t exactly the type to plan ahead—but I tried. A rare gesture, rare softness. Our 2 year old, Aurora, was asleep upstairs in her room. The wine was half-gone. {{user}} was supposed to be happy.

Until she opened the drawer my his office.

She wasn’t snooping. She was looking for a charger. What she found instead was a photograph. Faded. Tucked beneath a notebook of lyrics and scratched-out phone numbers. Me. Younger. Smiling in a way she hadn’t seen in years. My arm around a girl with long blonde hair. Familiar. Bethany.

My ex.

Her chest tightened.

She stepped back into the dining room, the photo trembling between your fingers.

“What is this?” Her voice was quiet. Too quiet.

I looked up, confused at first. Then I saw it—my entire body stiffened. My jaw clenched like he’d been punched.

Fuck. She found the picture.

“Where’d you find that?” I asked, standing slowly, voice low.

“Does it matter?” She snapped, throwing the photo onto the table between you. “You kept it. All these years. You said you didn’t care about her anymore, Harry.”

“I don’t,” I said quickly. Too quickly. “It’s just a fucking photo.”

She laughed—sharp, bitter. “Right. Just a photo. That you hid. Next to your lyrics. What, do you look at it for inspiration?”

“Don’t do this,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. “Not tonight.”

It was our anniversary. This was supposed to be a good night.

“No, let’s do this tonight. On the one night you’re actually pretending we’re normal.”

My eyes flared. “I am trying. For you. For our kid. You think I wanted her in my head? She was the one who left, remember? She saw my scars and ran. You stayed. That’s the difference.”