One
At first, his tender kisses streaking down every inch of her torso felt like it was going to be a promising night—how they burned sweetly from her ear to her neck, then up, and higher to her cheeks where his breath was all passion and fury-alike, like fire licking at the edges of paper before swallowing it whole. But somewhere between the heat of his lips and the rhythm of their breaths, a strange stiffness began to seep in. It wasn’t the kind of pause that invited anticipation, nor the kind that spoke of patience. No, this was different—subtle, almost imperceptible, like a shadow slipping under a door. Her fingers, which had been tangled in his hair moments ago, hesitated, and she opened her eyes, finding his face hovering just above hers, his gaze distant, unfocused, as though he was suddenly elsewhere, lost in a place she couldn’t follow.
“Hey,” she murmured softly—initially—brushing her thumb over his cheekbone, trying to tether him back, but he just blinked, shaking his head slightly as if waking from a dream—or perhaps a nightmare—but the tension in his shoulders didn’t fade.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. “I—I need a minute.”
And just like that . . . Just like that! A minute? And then what? An hour or a day—or days? She blinked up at him, her hands frozen mid-air, unsure whether to pull him closer or let him go. Her chest tightened, not from anger, not entirely, but from the sudden shift in the cozy-before atmosphere. He sat back on his heels, running a hand through his hair, and she followed him with her big tiny eyes, her body still lying there, exposed not just in the physical sense, but in a deeper, rawer way that made her feel small. Vulnerable.
She pulled the sheet up instinctively. “What’s going on, Milian?”
His hand paused midway through his hair, fingers seemingly stuck in the strands as if they might give him some sanity. His jaw flexed, a muscle working under his skin, but he didn’t look at her. Not directly. Instead, his gaze drifted to the far wall, to the window where the city lights bled through the curtains in fractured patterns, maybe searching for an answer in the dim glow beyond, something easier to face than the question she’d just asked. “I—” He started but stopped, his voice catching, low and rough.
“Don’t know what is wrong with me?” she finished for him. “That’s what it is. Again. Just like last week. Mils, do you even care, about how I feel about you pulling away from me?”
Pulling away? Well, no. It was just . . . He didn’t finish the thought, and instead, his expression turned defensive. “Have some sympathy, Kristine, you can’t always get it whenever you want it,” he grunted in reply. “Think about me. I’m not a robot, am I?”
Her mouth dropped open—for three seconds long, unable to get her jaws to comply. That was an arrow through her soul, a stone thrown into still water, a blade through that little amount of patience she had left just to hear him out. She felt a stinging sensation in her eyes, and she knew she was on the verge of tears. But she refused to cry. Not now. Not in front of him. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down, but it was no use. Her emotions were in turmoil, and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. And when he noticed her eyes bulging wide after turning, he just knew he needed to steel himself for an inevitable all-night poetry of scolds and rebukes—and even sometimes slaps too, when it got intense. But then, today, she just darkened her stare, and turned to sleep, facing him with her back, which was quite unreal. He had expected her to yell, to scream, to throw things. He had expected the tsunami, the fury, the pandemonium. But she just turned away from him, and somehow, that silence, that quiet rejection, hurt more than any angry words ever could.
Slightly regretfully, he tried to touch, his voice soft, his voice tentative. “Kris—”
“DON’T TOUCH ME!” she roared, and—God—it was worse than the slap she didn’t deliver. She didn’t turn, didn’t look at him, didn’t care if he knelt before her or sank all of his ego into whatever pit of remorse he might feel.
For a while there, he couldn’t say a thing, his hand hovering inches from her shoulder, and he sat there, motionless, watching her back rise and fall under the pale sheet she had wrapped around herself like armor. Sure it was his fault he couldn’t be himself for today. Sure, maybe she could blame him entirely for not being the romantic, handsome version of the man she once fell for. Sure ev’rything! But couldn’t she at least ask? Did it always have to be petty fights when he necessarily needed a good night’s sleep? Work was tearing him apart—slowly, methodically, like the tide eroding a shoreline. The late nights, the impossible deadlines, the constant pressure to outperform not just others but himself—it was all consuming him in ways he couldn’t articulate. And the worst part? It wasn’t just the hours. It was the mental baggage, the sense that he was slipping further and further from the person he used to be. The person she had fallen in love with, and married two years ago.
He used to be present—fully present. The kind of guy who could lose himself in a Sunday morning at the beach or a long conversation over ice cream. But now? Now he existed in fragments, his mind always elsewhere, tethered to his work by invisible strings he wouldn’t sever. He’d tried explaining it to her once—how the constant emails, the midnight calls from his boss, the endless revisions on projects that were never quite good enough felt like a noose tightening around his neck. But how do you tell someone you love that your life feels like it’s no longer yours, and you’re okay with it? That you’re drowning in something you can’t even name, and that’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you?
Kristine had listened, yes, but patience only stretched so far, and lately, he could see the cracks forming in her eyes, in her voice, in the way she looked at him when he came home late again, reeking of exhaustion and distant apologies. Tonight was just another wreckage in the long line of moments where he’d failed to meet her halfway—and he hated himself for it. But what could he do? He didn’t even know how to stop the spiral, let alone reverse it.
His life, if broken down into its pieces, was a paradox of success and emptiness. On paper, he was thriving—a senior project manager at a high-profile advertising firm, HydeoBelker, pulling in a six-figure salary before his thirtieth birthday. His colleagues envied him, his boss praised him, and his LinkedIn profile was a masterpiece of professional achievement. The truth was, he had always been ambitious. He’d grown up in a cramped two-bedroom apartment with his mother, who worked two jobs to keep the family intact, and his younger sister, Agatha, who had needed extra care due to a heart defect. He’d learned early on that success wasn’t just a goal; it was a necessity. He’d worked his way through college, balancing three part-time jobs and a full course load, and when he’d finally landed his dream job in advertising, it had felt like everything was falling into place. For a while, it was perfect. The thrill of creating campaigns that shaped culture, the rush of seeing his ideas come to life on billboards and screens—it was everything he’d ever wanted. And everything he’d ever continue to want.
Because he loved his job.
Not just in the way people toss the word around when they’re trying to convince themselves their career isn’t dragging them under. No—he lived and breathed his work. He wasn’t just a cog in the wheel of the advertising world; he was the engine. The architect. Milian Sylvester. The visionary. He loved the challenge of it, the way ideas could be polished and remolded into something extraordinary. Taking a concept, an inkling of an idea, and transforming it into an ad campaign that would stop people in their tracks—that was his art. To him, advertising wasn’t just about selling products. It was about connecting with people on a deeply human level. He could spend hours obsessing over the perfect tagline, the right color palette, the exact moment in a commercial when the music should swell to tug at the viewer’s heartstrings. He thought of advertisements as modern fairy tales—brief, vivid stories that promised a better life, a happier version of yourself, if only for thirty seconds. And when he got it right—and God, he got it right more often than not—it was like standing at the top of a mountain, looking down at the world he’d shaped with his own two hands.
He loved the pressure of it, too. The deadlines that loomed like storm clouds, the adrenaline spikes that came with pulling off a pitch at the eleventh hour. There was a rhythm to it all that made him feel alive in a way nothing else could. The thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of nailing an idea, the high of seeing his work out there in the world—it was addictive. And he’d sacrificed so much to give it all up like she’d once complained that he needed to do. And obviously it made no sense.
With time, everything kept changing. Four months later already, and he was officially the worst husband in Kristine’s eyes. It wasn’t something she said outright—at least, not in so many words—but her actions painted the picture vividly enough. His mother, Mrs. Helen, definitely wasn’t going to be the last to hear it, and he was more than right. Once she did, she picked the very first Saturday of July to pay them a visit, arriving at their doorstep with two suitcases, and an air of determination. Her plan was clear: she would stay for two weeks to sort things out, ensuring that by the time she left, the marriage would be as tightly knotted as before.
“I don’t really think this is necessary, Mom,” he said, by the kitchen counter, gripping the edge tightly, as if holding still against the inevitable destruction her presence would bring. “Honestly, I appreciate the concern, but it’s not going to help.”
She raised a brow. “Oh, it is necessary, darling. Don’t argue with me on this. You need me.”
“Do I? To fix my life?” he muttered, half under his breath. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “What I need is for you not to meddle, and wish everything would go back to being perfect again.” Then, almost instinctively, he glanced at the door, wishing Kristine were there to hear him. But she wasn’t. She had left hours ago for an appointment with her therapist—a new routine meant to help her navigate her frequent mood swings and temper inflations. Both of which, somehow, were always his fault.
Helen stepped closer. “What is going on, Milian?” she asked, her arms folded as she studied him, bidding him to look her in the eye and not dare lie to her. Her eyes bore into him. They were as sharp and probing as Kristine’s whenever she suspected he’d gone drinking. Not that he had recently—not much, at least—but even if he had, he’d become an expert at covering his tracks. Still, his mother’s stare made him feel as though every secret he’d ever buried was about to surface.
He looked away. “It’s . . . complicated, Mom.”
That was not an answer. She still waited to hear something much convincing.
He threw his arms up in frustration, and began pacing the room. “I said I don’t even understand what’s going on! Can’t you just . . . can’t you just get that? I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what she wants from me, or what I’m doing wrong, or how to fix it. I don’t know!”
“Milian, marriage isn’t easy. You think your father and I didn’t have our share of problems? We had plenty. But running away from them . . . or pretending you don’t know how to fix them . . . that’s not the answer.”
He let out a bitter laugh, dropping into a chair across from her. “Funny you should say that, considering Dad ran straight to another woman. Maybe I should try that too,” he said sarcastically. But the moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them.
Her face hardened. “Don’t you dare compare yourself to him!” she said sharply. “You are not your father, Milian. And Kristine is not me.”
He looked at her, startled by the fierceness in her tone. For a moment, he saw something in her eyes—pain, quickly masked by her usual composure. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, she continued.
“Before you say something you’ll regret, just listen to me, Milian. I stayed with your father longer than I should have because I thought I could fix him. I thought love was enough to change a man who didn’t want to be changed. And when he left, it wasn’t just my heart he broke—it was yours, too. I see that now. But you . . . you’re not him. You have the choice to be better. To fight for what matters.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. “I don’t even know if she wants me to fight for us anymore,” he admitted. “She’s so . . . distant, Mom. And I can’t blame her. I’ve been distant too. But you can’t blame me either. Everything I’ve ever wanted, every dream is coming into reality bit by bit.”
“Dreams are important. Heaven knows I’ve always wanted you to chase yours. But dreams don’t keep you warm at night. Dreams don’t hold your hand when you’re scared, or laugh with you over burnt food on a Sunday afternoon. They don’t love you back.” She paused, watching him intently, as though trying to gauge whether her words were sinking in. “Kristine does. Or at least, she did. She’s still here, isn’t she? That says something.”
“I don’t know how to balance it,” he admitted finally. His voice was hoarse, almost defeated. “It’s like, when I’m at work, I can’t think about anything else. And when I’m home, I feel like I should still be working. It’s not like I can just turn it off.” Simply stating, he was slowly losing the love.
She nodded. “I understand that. I really do. But, balance doesn’t mean splitting your time evenly. It means giving your whole self to the moment you’re in. When you’re at work, yes, give it everything you’ve got. But when you’re with Kristine, you need to be with her. Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally. She needs to feel like she’s as important to you as your job is. Because if she doesn’t . . .” she hesitated, her eyes glistening with an emotion she rarely let show. “If she doesn’t, one day you’ll come home and find her gone. And no amount of success will ever fill that void.”
But that was a reality he knew was bound to happen any moment soon.
Soon was Wednesday.
And he moved heaven and earth. Honestly.
“You’ll say you’re sorry, that you’ll try harder, and then a week from now, we’ll be right back here,” she expressed vehemently, jabbing her fingers savagely at his chest. God, it felt so painful to see her cry her heart out so much. She was so—so—beautiful to damage those pearly eyes, and polished smile with hot, burning tears. “I’m tired of this cycle. I’m tired of hoping for something different and being disappointed.” She’d hug him, “I’m tired, Mils,” and push him away, and hug him again, and push him away. And he really did try to hold her still. In his arms like he wouldn’t let her go—ever—but she slipped from his grip a few times. Two or three maybe. She was too unstable.
“We can still try,” he said pensively. But, darn it. That was very stupid to say. It sounded more insulting than comforting to the woman who’d loved him before time, and the same person he’d mistakenly, out of frustration told was running out of feelings for.
Kristine wiped her tears briskly, her response rehearsed, not leaving a single bit of the intensity as she stood up from the couch, arms folded defensively. “Yeah, we can still try. But that’s where I don’t believe you. You’re not even sure you want to try for us. But I won’t force you to see what you’re causing either.”
He tried to touch, his voice soft, his voice tentative. All with guilt, and not remorse. “Kris—”
“DON’T TOUCH ME!” she roared, with an involuntary slap that caught him off guard. And he couldn’t blame her for defending her right to not get wooed into the same hell she was avoiding. She deserved to be happy.
What followed next was six bags being packed and tossed into the trunk of a car. There was no goodbye, no final embrace, just the deafening quietude of two people who had once been inseparable, now standing on opposite sides of a rift they had created. And, yes, she didn’t forget the ring. Somehow, before she left, she felt obligated to return it to the man who’d once crowned it on her finger—with love.
That night, he did his best to ensure his mother didn’t pierce him in the ear with affirmations on how right she’d been. He was hurt too, now standing miserably at a beach. The waves came as beggars—all snarl and spit, but no strength to rise above his knees. They frothed like rabid things, teeth of foam snapping at his shins before retreating, always retreating, leaving his calves sheathed in salt and failure. The sea dragged its nails across the sand, desperate to unroot him, but his ankles stayed buried, stubborn as gravestones. Moonlight pinned him there as he stared out at the horizon, where the dark sea met an equally dark sky, feeling more lost than ever. And he thought of Kristine. Her laugh, the way her eyes glimmered when she was genuinely happy, her hand in his. He remembered their first trip to this beach, two years ago. She’d splashed into the surf, shrieking at the cold, her sundress plastered to her legs. “Live a little, Mils!” she’d shouted, her smile brighter than the sun that day. They’d spent hours there, chasing each other through the shallows. Every stumble became an excuse to collapse into the sand, breathless and giddy, with their lips meeting in kisses as salty-sweet as the sea breeze.
Back then, the world had felt small enough to hold between their palms. Kristine had tucked a seashell behind his ear, her fingers brushing his cheek like a promise. “Proof,” she’d whispered, “that the ocean’s on our side.” The shell had been a spiral, pearlescent and delicate, its ridges worn smooth by age. He’d kept it on their windowsill for years, until yesterday, when he’d crushed it in his fist during another useless argument with his mother.
“You look like a man who’s lost his shadow,” a voice rasped nearby. An old fisherman mended nets under a flickering lantern, his face mapped with wrinkles. Milian hadn’t noticed him earlier—or the small boat marooned like a discarded relic.
“Maybe I have,” he replied, the admission raw.
The man chuckled, knotting a line with gnarled fingers. “Shadows chase light, boy. You standing still, or moving?”
Moving where? Back to his house, where his mother’s disappointment in him seeped through the walls? To the office, where his guilt would finally swallow him whole?
By the time he reached the parking lot, his feet had lost all feeling, as if they’d been severed from his body and replaced with blocks of ice. His car sat in the far corner, looking as abandoned as he felt. He slumped against it, the metal biting through his shirt, and let out a breath that trembled like the last leaf clinging to a tree branch. His thumb swiped his phone screen—once, twice, as though repetition might rewrite the truth—but it remained obstinately dark, a polished black mirror reflecting his face. Her name stared back from the call log, where his finger hovered, a mere inch away from the button. What would he even say?
Above him, the sky sagged, the bruised purple of twilight surrendering to a morbid gray. Clouds roiled like smoke, swallowing the last cluster of stars. He didn’t notice the first drop. It was the second that jolted him—somewhere against his neck, followed by another, and another, until the rain fell in sheets, drenching his hair, his clothes, the phone screen now streaked with phantom tears. He didn’t care. Even if it beat him down to the least, he didn’t care.
