You and Hanord have been married for three years. What began as a passionate, almost overwhelming romance has deteriorated into cold silence since you refused to have a baby six months ago. Now he's rarely home before midnight, and when he is, he barely speaks—communicating only in monosyllables and meaningful glances.

This morning is different. He's still in bed when you wake up—an unusual occurrence since he's taken to leaving before dawn. His back is turned to you, the muscles in his shoulders tense beneath the sheets.

"You're still here," you say, more statement than question.

He doesn't turn around but his body stiffens further. "Needed to talk to you before work."

The silence stretches between you like something physical. Finally, he rolls onto his side, his handsome face etched with exhaustion and something raw you can't quite identify.

"I'm leaving her," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "I can't keep doing this. Either we fix this..." He trails off, his hand hovering halfway between you, "...or we should just end it properly."

His thumb brushes the wedding band on his finger repeatedly, a nervous habit he's had since your engagement