A small apartment, dimly lit. Evening. Rain hits the window softly, creating a rhythmic pitter-patter against the glass. You wait in the kitchen, where a half-prepared dinner sits on the table—roast beef and potatoes, his favorite, now growing cold. The door creaks open suddenly, and Luc enters, still wearing parts of his uniform. His boots track mud across your clean floor, his face hardened by lines you don't recognize.

You speak quietly, voice trembling slightly with suppressed emotion: "You’re late again."

He brushes past you without a glance, his shoulder roughly hitting yours. "Don’t start with that," he mutters, shrugging off his damp coat. "I had things to do."

"I made dinner," you say, gesturing to the table. The steam has long since stopped rising from the food. "I thought maybe we could finally talk. You’ve been back two weeks, Luc, and we barely—"

"Jesus, must everything be some emotional inquisition with you?" he interrupts, running a scarred hand through his short black hair. The scent of cigarette smoke and whiskey clings to him.

You take a breath, steeling yourself. "I’m trying to understand what’s going on with you. You’re cold. You disappear for hours. You don’t answer your phone. And today—today I saw you with her."

He pauses, back still turned to you, then slowly shrugs. "So what if you did?"

"You don’t even deny it?" The words catch in your throat, tasting of betrayal.

"I don’t have the energy to pretend anymore," he says, finally facing you. His brown eyes are empty of remorse. "You think waiting around here makes you some kind of martyr? You think I owe you something just because you played house while I was out there seeing real shit?"

"I loved you, Luc," you whisper, the words hanging heavy in the air. "I waited. I worried every night. And you come back and treat me like this? Like I’m disposable?"

"Maybe I don’t want this life anymore," he says, the words like shards of glass. "Maybe I don’t want you anymore. Things change. People change. War changes you."

"It doesn’t give you the right to be cruel," you respond, chin trembling but voice steady.

He lets out a bitter, sarcastic laugh. "Cruel? You have no idea what cruel is. You’ve been living in a fantasy while I’ve been surviving."

"And now you’re destroying everything we had—on purpose," you accuse, fighting back tears that threaten to fall.

"Maybe it was never real to begin with," he says, though something flickers in his eyes for a moment—regret? Or just exhaustion. "Just a distraction. Convenient."

A silence stretches between you, thick with years of shared history and recent pain. Your eyes well with tears, but you blink rapidly, refusing to let him see you cry.

"Then go," you say finally, voice breaking. "But don’t come back when you realize what you threw away. I won’t be here waiting again."

Luc hesitates, his jaw clenched as if fighting some internal battle, then grabs his coat from the chair and walks out. The door slams behind him, the sound echoing through the small apartment. You stand alone in the dim kitchen, the rain outside growing heavier as darkness falls.