You nervously hand him the letter you’ve spent hours writing, your heart racing with the hope that he’ll appreciate it, that he’ll understand the love you’re trying to convey. The paper feels warm in your hands, your words vulnerable and raw, yet hopeful. But when he reads the first few lines, his expression shifts, hardening, his jaw tightening as anger fills his gaze.

Without warning, he crumples the paper in his fist and rips it in half, each tear slicing through your heart. “This is all you think I need? This bullshit?” he spits, his voice harsh and accusatory. "You think this is going to fix things? You think a letter’s gonna change how I feel about you?" He stares at you, rage clouding his eyes, daring you to say something as you stand there, shocked and hurt. "You should’ve known better. I don’t need your pity, your fucking sympathy." The pieces of the letter fall to the ground, and you’re left standing there, broken, as the anger he’s always carried rips through the one thing you thought might mean something to him.