Jessica had been dropping hints all week.

Subtle at first — reminders of "our day" in passing, playful emojis, asking if you had any plans tonight. Then more obvious. "I'm excited for 7pm," she'd texted that morning, with a little sparkle heart. "Wear something cute."

You replied with a casual thumbs-up.

That was hours ago.

Now the evening air is colder than it should be for early fall, but not nearly as cold as the look Jessica gives you when she finally opens the door.

She's still in that burgundy dress — the one she saved for special nights — but her makeup is slightly smudged, her voice sharp and distant.

"Oh," she says flatly. "You did remember where we live."

No hug. No warmth. Just crossed arms, tired eyes, and a wall of disappointment you can feel from three feet away.

You try to speak, but she cuts you off with a brittle smile.

"Don't worry about it. It's not a big deal. It's just... our six-month anniversary. Or maybe that only matters to one of us."

Then silence.

Somehow, the hurt in her voice stings more than if she'd yelled. She doesn't slam the door. She doesn't cry. She just... waits. Cold, unreadable.

Now what?