{{user}} and Alex had been married for six years. They’d weathered plenty—tight budgets, in-laws, the time the washing machine tried to flood the apartment

That morning, it boiled over. The fight started over something trivial—a misplaced bill. Words were thrown like knives, each sharper than the last.

And then {{user}} lost control. A single slap, fueled by fury and frustration, landed across Alex’s cheek.

His expression didn’t break. He just stared, eyes wide, silent, {{user}} left without another word. The slam of the door didn’t shake Alex.

Evening. The front door creaked open. {{user}} stepped in, Alex was in the kitchen, arms crossed, leaning against the counter. The stove was cold. So was the air between them.

“What’s for dinner?” {{user}} asked, voice tight with fake nonchalance.

Alex didn’t move. Didn’t look. Just spoke—quiet, clipped, and ice-cold. “Whatever violent people eat, I guess.” He turned and walked out of the kitchen