The food had gone cold hours ago.
Aida stood in the kitchen anyway, reheating soup she had no intention of eating. The microwave hummed softly, almost companionable, as she wiped her hands on a dish towel. Her phone glowed: 11:47 p.m. She exhaled slowly through her nose.
"Mmmh," she murmured, uncertain if she was comforting herself or someone else.
She had expected him by eight. Nine at the latest. By ten, she'd packed away the food, washed the plates, tied her hair into a loose bun, and told herself she was being dramatic.
Now, she just felt tired.
The door clicked open.
"Oh!" she breathed before she could stop herself.
"You're awake," Julius said.
"Yes," she murmured.
He stepped inside with the casual confidence of a man who always assumed the world bent for him. Tailored jacket, smooth skin, effortless charm. People often commented on him when they thought she wasn't listening. He sneezed lightly.
"Tchhh. Excuse me."
"Bless you," she said.
"Thanks."
He set his phone down. Keys clinked in the bowl. The sound felt too loud in the quiet house.
"I thought you'd be asleep," he added.
"I was waiting."
"For what?"
"For you," she said, swallowing quickly. "Dinner's done. I just… reheated some."
He glanced at the microwave. "You didn't have to."
"I wanted to."
"That's different," he said.
Aida pressed her lips together. She was light-skinned, soft-featured, average height. Brown eyes that reflected the kitchen light warmly, nails neat and neutral, lips naturally fading from dark to light ombré, dimples that rarely showed now. She didn't smile.
"You said you'd be back early," she said, her voice careful.
"I said I'll try."
"You always! always say that," she emphasized.
"And you always wait," he replied mildly. "We've been over this."
She turned off the microwave before it finished; the beep was too sharp.
"I just wanted to eat together," she said. "Is that so bad?"
He loosened his cufflinks, a sigh escaping. "You make everything sound like a moral issue."
"I'm not trying," she said quickly. "I just… mmmh." She shook her head. "I missed you."
He paused. Not softened. Just paused.
"You're being emotional again," he said.
"I'm being honest."
"Same thing with you," he replied.
Her hands trembled slightly. She curled her fingers into fists to hide it.
"You smell… different," she said quietly.
"Different how?"
"Like perfume."
He chuckled lightly. "You always imagine things when you're tired."
"I'm not imagining."
"Aida." His voice dropped, sharp now. "Don't start."
Her throat tightened. "Where were you?"
"Out."
"With who?" She said almost teary
"Does it matter?"
"Yes."
"No," he corrected. "It doesn't."
She inhaled slowly. "I had a rough day."
"You always do," he said.
"That's not fair."
He leaned against the counter. "You're the one who insists on working yourself to death."
"I don't insist. I have responsibilities," she said, breathless.
"You chose them."
"So did you pay for the uti…" she whispered.
He straightened. "Care…ful."
"I didn't mean"
"You're listing again," he said. "Counting who does what. That's unattractive."
"I'm overwhelmed, Julius," she admitted softly. "I'm carrying a lot right now."
"You always are," he replied. "And somehow the world hasn't ended."
She hesitated, heart racing. She wanted to tell him the numbers, the pressure, the weight of being the provider crushing her, but the words stuck.
"I just need support," she said.
He scoffed. "Support for what? Living comfortably?"
"That's not what I mean."
"You sound ungrateful."
Her eyes burned. "I'm your wife."
"And you're exhausting me."
Something cracked in her chest.
"I poured my heart out last time," she whispered. "I told you how lonely I feel."
"And I told you it was nothing," he replied, flat. "You exaggerate pain."
"It wasn't nothing to me."
"Well," he said coolly, "that's your burden."
She stepped closer, hands shaking. Not to grab. Just to touch.
"Owwch!" she gasped as he shoved her back.
Her body slammed into the counter. The sound escaped her before she could control it.
"Don't," he snapped. "Don't push me."
"I wasn't," she coughed, breath hitching. "I wasn't."
"You were. You always provoke me."
Her back throbbed; she pressed her palm there instinctively.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
He exhaled, rubbing his face like a man wronged. "This is why I hate coming home."
She nodded, tears blurring her vision. "I won't bring it up again."
"Good."
He walked away.
"I'll sleep on the couch," she said.
"Suit yourself."
Aida slid down slowly, wincing, until she was sitting on the floor. She hugged her knees, breathing through the pain.
In the reflection of the oven door, she barely recognized the woman staring back, beautiful, tired, unsure. A woman people admired at work. A woman men respected in boardrooms. A woman reduced to apologizing on a kitchen floor.
Tomorrow will be better. God, please hear my cry and restore my marriage.
She wept, even harder than she expected.