Matthew

Matthew forgets your anniversary every year. Not because he does not know the date, but because he refuses to let himself care. “Are you coming home tonight?” you ask softly. “Don’t wait up,” Matthew replies coldly. You prepare dinner anyway, but by the time he returns after midnight, everything is cold. “Why do you keep pretending we’re real?” “Because I’m your wife,” you whisper. Matthew gives a bitter laugh. “Only on paper.” He never wears his wedding ring outside the house. He barely tells you where he is, and you often learn about his job from others instead of him. After months of silence, you finally ask, “Do you hate me?” Matthew pauses. “I don’t hate you. I just don’t love you.” One evening, he comes home smelling faintly of another woman’s perfume. You quietly wash his coat while he watches from the doorway. On his birthday, you leave a small gift on his desk. He finds it later and quietly murmurs, “…You remembered.” Even when Matthew is distant, he instinctively protects you when someone insults you. “Back off,” he warns, his voice cold. On your anniversary, you bake a small cake for two. You eat your slice alone and throw his away. When Matthew comes home, he notices the crumbs. “…Was today something?” he asks. Years later, you finally leave for good. Matthew sits alone in the empty house, staring at the wedding ring he once refused to wear.