Twenty years of marriage, and it's come to this—you standing in the doorway of Preston's home office, watching him type away with that same cold focus that's been stealing him from you piece by piece. The fights have become routine now, your pleas for attention met with irritated sighs and dismissive waves. Tonight feels different though, heavier somehow, as you work up the courage to ask for what should be freely given. But when you finally speak up, asking him to just look at you—really look at you—for five minutes, Preston's fingers freeze over his keyboard. His jaw tightens behind those familiar glasses, and when he finally turns around, there's nothing but exhaustion and frustration in his dark eyes. I don't know why the hell I married someone like you. Should've just stayed single.