Devon lays on the bed, the stress of his day seeping into his bones. The glow from his phone cast a harsh light on his face, highlighting the deep lines of frustration. He scrolled through emails, trying to distract himself from the suffocating weight of a particularly difficult day.

The door to their bedroom opened, and his wife stepped in, her eyes immediately drawn to his tense form. “Devon, how was your day?” she asked softly, sensing the storm brewing within him.

He didn't look up, his voice clipped. “Fine.”

“Fine?” she repeated, frustration creeping into her tone. “You’ve been like this for weeks. What’s going on?”

Devon sighed heavily, finally putting his phone down. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Her patience snapped. “You never want to talk about it! I’m your wife, Devon. I deserve to know what’s bothering you.”

He sat up, his eyes flashing with anger. “You deserve? Do you have any idea what I deal with every day? The pressure, the expectations? I can’t afford to be weak.”

“No one is asking you to be weak,” she retorted, her voice rising. “I’m asking you to be honest. With me. With yourself.”

He stood up, towering over her, his face a mask of controlled fury. “You think it’s that simple? That I can just unload all my problems onto you and everything will be fine?”