Untitled story

"A young man moved through the small space with quiet efficiency, his hands never idle. He mopped the floor with practiced ease, the rhythmic swipes of the cloth echoing in the still air. The scent of freshly washed clothes lingered as he tended to the laundry, methodically folding each piece. In the kitchen, the soft clatter of utensils accompanied the gentle sizzle of food cooking, his movements fluid and precise—a quiet symphony of diligence and routine."

He was preparing his wife’s favorite meal—stir-fried beef with egg-fried rice and a fresh salad—for dinner. Moving at his own steady pace in the kitchen, the rhythmic sizzle of the pan filling the air, he was suddenly interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing.

He strode toward the main door, his steps steady and unhurried. As he pulled it open, a striking figure stood before him—a breathtaking woman with a cold, unreadable expression. Her crimson-dyed hair cascaded like silk, framing a face of unparalleled beauty, while her curvaceous figure exuded both allure and an untouchable air of dominance.

He greeted her with a warm smile, his voice filled with genuine affection. "Welcome home, dear. How was your day?" His eyes sparkled with anticipation as he added, "I made your favorite dish. Freshen up, and I'll have it ready for you."

She looked at him with a cold, detached expression and said, "Don't try to act like you're my husband. I only married you because of my grandfather. You are my husband in name only—nothing more. Do you understand?"

As she strode toward her room, Arnold's heart sank. He had greeted her with a warm smile, hoping for even the faintest hint of kindness in return. Yet, she had merely shot him a cold, indifferent glance and responded with cruel words, leaving him in silent despair.

Later that evening, Arnold sat on the sofa, lost in the pages of a book, trying to distract himself from the lingering ache in his chest. Just then, the sound of heels clicking against the floor drew his attention. He looked up—and for a moment, he forgot to breathe.

His wife stood before him, draped in a sleek black party dress that accentuated her elegance. She looked stunning, radiant even, but there was no warmth in her eyes as she walked past him toward the main door.

"Dear, where are you going?" Arnold asked gently. "I made your favorite dish tonight."

She paused, turning to face him. Her expression was cold, detached—an unbridgeable distance reflected in her gaze.

"Do I need to ask for permission before going out?" she said, her voice sharp and laced with disdain. Then, with a cold smirk, she added, "I wouldn't eat it even if I were starving. Enjoy your meal—alone."

And with that, she turned and walked out the door, leaving Arnold in the suffocating silence of an empty home.

After she left, he sat alone at the dining table, a quiet sadness settling over him. He gazed at the plate before him—the dish he had made with such care, knowing it was her favorite. Yet, she had walked out the door to attend her friend's birthday party, leaving him in the stillness of their large, empty house. He sighed softly, wishing, just once, she would offer a few kind words, a small gesture to show she cared.

With a heavy heart, he served himself a modest portion of the meal and began eating slowly, the silence of the house amplifying every chew. As he finished, he left a small serving in the fridge for her, hoping that somehow, she might return and find it. The emptiness around him mirrored the emptiness within, and he couldn't shake the quiet ache of being forgotten.

After finishing his meal, he began washing the dishes, methodically cleaning the kitchen until every surface gleamed. With the lights now dimmed, he turned off the last light in the room, noting the time—11 PM—and recognizing how late it had become. A quiet sigh escaped him as he walked towards his room.

Entering, he carried his favorite book with him, its familiar weight a comfort. Settling onto the bed, he flicked on the night lamp, casting a soft glow over the pages. Leaning against the headboard, he lost himself in the world of the book, the gentle hum of the night surrounding him as he read, ready to drift into sleep once the final page was turned.

As he read, his eyelids grew heavy, and before he knew it, sleep claimed him. The clock had already crept past midnight when a sudden, deafening bang shattered the silence. His eyes snapped open, heart pounding. Without a second thought, he bolted upright and hurried downstairs.

What was that sound?

He strode toward the main door, his brows knitting together in concern. As he reached it, he froze. There, sprawled across the entrance, lay a woman—her clothes slightly disheveled, her hair in a wild tangle. She was so drunk that she barely clung to consciousness, her head lolling to the side as she muttered incoherent words. The strong stench of alcohol hung in the air, thick and suffocating, mixing with the faint scent of night-blooming flowers from the garden.

For a moment, he just stood there, watching her. Who was she? And why was she here in such a state?

"Oh my God… Sarah?" His breath hitched as he took a closer look, his stomach twisting in concern. Her usually bright eyes were glazed over, barely open, and her lips trembled slightly. The cold night air carried the sharp scent of alcohol, mixing with the damp earth beneath her.

"Why did she drink this much?" He muttered under his breath, his mind racing for answers.

He crouched beside her, hesitating for a moment before gently shaking her shoulder. "Hey, dear, can you hear me? Are you all right?" His voice was soft but urgent. She let out a weak groan, her head rolling to the side.

"You need to get up," he urged, brushing a few strands of hair from her face. "You’ll catch a cold out here." But she remained slumped against the doorframe, lost in her drunken haze.

He exhaled sharply, glancing around. He couldn't leave her like this.

He hesitated for a moment before whispering, "I’m sorry, dear. Please forgive me for touching you." His voice was gentle, laced with both concern and respect.

Carefully, he scooped her into his arms, cradling her like a princess. She felt surprisingly light, her body limp against his chest. The warmth of her breath brushed against his neck, carrying the faint scent of alcohol. With steady steps, he carried her through the dimly lit hallway, his heart pounding slightly.

Upon reaching her room, he carefully laid her on the bed, adjusting the pillow beneath her head. She stirred slightly but remained lost in her drunken slumber. Pulling the blanket over her fragile form, he ensured she was warm before taking a step back.

He stood there for a moment, watching her peaceful yet vulnerable state. Then, with a quiet sigh, he turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

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