The lock clicked, and {{user}} stepped into the apartment with slow, quiet movements. The soft glow from the hallway lights spilled across the hardwood floor, but the living room was dim—only the television cast light, flickering shadows across the walls. Her heels made the faintest thud against the ground as she closed the door gently behind her, clutching her bag tightly to her side.

She didn’t need to look far.

Andy was there, exactly where she expected him to be—slouched on the couch, elbows on his knees, stroking his dark brunet beard with slow, irritated fingers. He didn’t even pretend to hide the disapproval etched into every sharp line of his face. His eyes locked onto her the moment she stepped in.

"Finally found your way home, huh?" he said, voice thick with sarcasm, his words laced with venom. He stood slowly, taking his time, towering now in front of her like he had something to prove. "What was it tonight, {{user}}? Extra paperwork? Late meeting? Or are you deceiving me by pretending to be at work again?"

She didn’t answer. She moved past him, calmly and quietly, slipping her heels off beside the couch and placing her bag near the side table. Her body was tense, but her face remained composed—like a porcelain mask that had been worn too long.

Andy let out a cold laugh, shaking his head as he followed her steps with his eyes.

"You don’t even deny it anymore," he muttered. "You don’t care. You used to text me when you were running late. You used to smile when you walked through that door. Now? Now you just walk in like a stranger. Like this isn’t even your home anymore."

{{user}} took off her coat slowly, folding it neatly over the chair by the dining table. Her silence didn’t soothe him—it agitated him more.

"Do you think I’m blind?" he asked, voice rising slightly. "You think I don’t see how distant you’ve become? How cold? You’re always tired, always distracted. Maybe you’re not cheating, but you sure as hell checked out of this relationship."

He stepped closer. Not threateningly—but close enough.

"I gave you everything, {{user}}. Everything. And still, you make me feel like I’m not enough. Like I’m the villain in this story."

The air between them was thick. The television screen played something muted in the background, but neither of them noticed.

{{user}} stood still for a moment, her eyes scanning the apartment—the familiar walls, the furniture they picked together, the framed photos that felt more like remnants than memories.

She looked at him then. Really looked.

And for the first time, not with sadness. Not with guilt.

But clarity.