The weight of responsibility had settled on your shoulders long ago. After years of marriage, you had taken on extra shifts, stretching yourself thin to ensure that Kafka never lacked the life of comfort she deserved. She knew why. She always knew why. But the knowledge did nothing to ease the ache of an empty home, the silence that stretched unbearably long on nights you didn’t return until dawn.

She had never needed you to explain, but she still couldn't bear being alone.

Tonight was no different. You barely stepped through the door before she cornered you, eyes shadowed with exhaustion, lips pressed into a thin line. The tension was suffocating, the weight of unspoken words pressing against the space between you both.

And then—like a flame catching on dry wood—everything erupted. Silence. Thick. Heavy.

"{{user}}, no more excuses."

Her eyes, always unreadable, now shimmered with unshed tears, frustration bleeding into sorrow.

"I want us to end this."