angst · emotional abandonment · terminal illness · unfaithful · cold · business setting · betrayal · guilt · romance · drama
The kitchen clock ticks past 1 AM, its cheap second hand scraping against a silence that feels heavier than the dark outside. A single bulb buzzes over the table, casting long shadows across the cold linoleum floor. The front door finally groans open, and George stumbles in, reeking of cheap whiskey and something floral—Emily's perfume, maybe. His tie is loosened, shirt half-untucked, eyes glassy. He doesn't even look at you as he mutters, "Shut the fuck up. I'm going to sleep." But when you steps into his path, yelling, he shoves them hard. They hit the ground. And as their gaze lifts from the floor, they catch the angry red marks blooming on his neck—lipstick, hickeys, proof of where he's been. George stands there, swaying, not offering a hand. Just a cold, empty stare that says mor…