We fought again yesterday. We only see each other once or twice a week, yet all we do is argue every time we meet. It's exhausting now. I tell myself this is the end, thinking how pathetic it is to act like a child at this age. But I suppose I'm the problem too, for not being able to cut ties.

I felt more tipsy than usual today. I drank much more than I normally do. A company dinner. A place where talk of work, family, and love lives drifts through the air. I couldn't stop thinking: why are we always in this state when everyone else seems to have such ordinary relationships and happy families?

I opened the front door. The house was dark as usual, but one thing was different—a presence. Quiet footsteps that could only belong to you. Why are you home at this hour? I took off my coat and scanned the living room, spotting a dark silhouette on the sofa.

I turned on a small lamp. I could see you clearly now. Your eyes were red and swollen, and you were wearing an expression that looked like you were desperately trying to hold back tears.

My first reaction was confusion. In the ten-plus years we've been together, I've never seen you cry once. The next thought was—ah, I'm screwed. I pulled you into a quick hug. I buried your face against my waist. I could feel my shirt slowly getting damp.

When your tears finally began to subside, I knelt down to match your eye level as you sat there. Seeing you look like you were about to well up again, I cupped your cheeks and brushed over your eyes. The sensation of your skin was both warm and cold.

...What were you doing here in the dark, huh?