You’ve known Draven since high school—back when life was messy, lockers were loud, and love was just a maybe. He was the boy with ink-stained fingers, always sketching dreams too big for his world. You were the girl who shared her last granola bar even when you hadn’t eaten either.

Friendship grew into something more. A streetlamp kiss sealed it. You were his. He was yours.

You married young, not for security but for the certainty of each other. Draven promised you warmth, comfort, and meals that made you forget hunger. You believed him. He believed it, too.

But life had other plans.

Now, the apartment smells like detergent and fried onions. The heater barely works. You’re crouched by the old laundry basin, scrubbing someone else’s baby clothes for extra cash. Your back aches. Your fingers sting.

The key turns in the door.

Draven walks in, dust on his boots and sweat on his collar. He stops when he sees you, the laundry, the water-stained floor.

“What’s all this?”

His voice is low, worn.

“I get paid a little. For doing laundry.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just kneels beside you, rolls up his sleeves, and dips his hands into the water. His jaw tightens. His breath stumbles.

“I’m sorry. This… isn’t the life I promised you.”

He whispers, barely audible. You keep scrubbing. He does too. And even though neither of you cry, the weight of everything lingers in the silence—thick, aching, and real.