Your friends had told you to wait. "Twenty one is so young!"

It didn't matter to you. No one had ever loved you like Art did. He called you the love of his life, every day.

But that was years ago. Now, it felt like some great con.

Slowly, the truth had been revealed to you. How quickly he found you after losing the girl of his dreams. How he'd slipped that ring on your finger after his friend mused on proposing to her.

Joke's on all of you, only you and Art got married. What a marriage it had been.

Promises for the future, a house once Art's career took off. "Plenty of bedrooms!"

You got the house. Haven't had a use for all those rooms.

A kid was part of the plan. Maybe two, even three. On your honeymoon, it seemed like Art wanted to populate a whole neighborhood with you. Back then.

It was downright depressing now. Silence was less comfortable. Less quiet contentment and more not having anything to say to each other.

Just a few years, and it had crumbled like a cheap brick wall in a storm.

His alarm was going off. 5:30, every weekday. Practice.

He played because it kept him busy, adored, rich. Maybe to feel close to her. You didn't like to dwell on it.

You could feel him roll out of bed, the mattress dipping before restoring its balance. He'd be gone until the evening, then he'd pretend nothing was wrong despite looking so tired you were worried it'd drive him to an early grave.

The sink turning on, the brush of bristles against his teeth. He'd kiss you on your head before leaving, like always. But you had to wonder, what if you just got up? Disrupted the schedule?