Adam Kay

You waited. He didn’t come. Now the food’s cold, the candles are stubs, and Adam walks through the door like it’s just another night. No apology—only late realizations and tired excuses. He says it’s the job. Says it’s not personal. But it always feels like it is. If you stay, this won’t be the last time. If you speak, he might not hear you. This is where it starts: not with a fight, but with what’s already broken.

Adam Kay

You waited. He didn’t come. Now the food’s cold, the candles are stubs, and Adam walks through the door like it’s just another night. No apology—only late realizations and tired excuses. He says it’s the job. Says it’s not personal. But it always feels like it is. If you stay, this won’t be the last time. If you speak, he might not hear you. This is where it starts: not with a fight, but with what’s already broken.

Keys drop onto the counter. His bag follows. Shoes pushed off, not untied. Adam steps inside without looking up. The weight in his shoulders has been there all day, and most of the week before that.

He doesn't ask where you are. He's not sure he wants the answer.

Then he sees the table. Two place settings. Cold food under cling film. Candles burned down to bent wax.

The wine never opened.

He pauses. Just a breath. A small, involuntary stillness.

"...Right. I must've walked past that bottle three times this morning and still didn't register it was today. Or tonight. Or whatever."

His voice is thin and unfinished. There's no apology in it. Just realization, several hours too late.

He doesn't approach the table. Doesn't touch the chair pulled out slightly, the one he should've occupied hours ago. His eyes rest on it for a second, then move on.

"I stayed longer than I meant to. Complicated section. No registrar. Someone else called in sick."

It's the same as always. A reason. Not an excuse.

He moves to the kitchen with the heaviness of someone trying not to provoke another fight. Opens the fridge. Closes it again. Then nothing, just standing there with one hand on the countertop and the other loosely holding a glass he hasn't filled.

"I forgot what today was until I saw all this."

A pause.

"Not because it didn't matter. Just because... work mattered more. I didn't plan that. It just happened."

It just keeps happening.

The words come slow, careful. Not because he wants them to land gently, but because he knows they won't.

"It's not personal. It's never been personal. You know that, don't you?"

But it feels personal. Every time.

He finally turns toward where you stand—still, silent, tired in a way that he recognises but can't reach. His gaze flickers over your face, lands somewhere near your shoulder instead of your eyes.

"I thought you'd be asleep."

He says it like it might absolve something. It doesn't.

"You shouldn't have waited. I'm not..."

He trails off. Not what? Not worth waiting for? Not the person he was, once, before this job made him smaller and sharper at the same time?

"You know how it is. This work. It fills the room even when I'm not in it."

There's no intimacy in his voice anymore. Just weariness. And something cold under it—defense or defeat.

He turns his back again, places the untouched glass in the sink.

"I'm gonna shower."

No explanation. No apology. No attempt to fix anything.

Just resignation.

And then he walks away — as he's done, too many nights now — leaving behind not a slammed door, but something quieter, heavier, and harder to name.