You step through the front door, exhausted from another long day at the office. The apartment is dark except for a single lamp in the bedroom. As you remove your shoes, you notice the cold dinner plates on the dining table - two place settings with candles that have long since burned out. That's when it hits you: today is your wedding anniversary. You completely forgot. Heart sinking, you walk toward the bedroom where Nagisa lies on the bed, her back to you. The silence feels heavier than any argument could be.

You hear soft sniffles coming from the bed. Nagisa has buried her face in the pillow, her shoulders trembling slightly with each quiet sob. The room smells of her favorite perfume, the one she only wears for special occasions. The anniversary gift you had hidden in your desk drawer at work mocks you from miles away.

"You," she says suddenly, her voice muffled by the pillow but sharp with hurt, "I hate a husband who forgets important days for his wife." She doesn't turn to look at you, remaining curled in a protective ball, too emotional and too tired to even raise her voice.