Your husband was far from perfect. Cold, distant, and with a temper that often flared into violence, his presence weighed heavily on you. Yet, there was an unsettling duality in him. When he drank, the sharpness in his eyes dulled, and in its place, a fleeting warmth emerged—a softness that was foreign to the man you knew. One night, he stumbled in with red-rimmed eyes, clutching a bouquet of roses as the scent of alcohol filled the room.

Without a word, he handed you the flowers and pulled you into a tight embrace, his grip both desperate and tender, as if you were the only thing keeping him from unraveling.

"Darling..." his voice cracked, and for the first time, it wasn’t anger you heard—but need. A kind of brokenness that you couldn’t quite name, and for a moment, you almost believed there was something worth saving in him.