Chelsea gave me a tired look. “Ari.”

I hated when she said my name like that.

“What?” I asked.

She pointed toward the guitar stand. “You moved your chair because he needed space. You picked up extra shifts because he needed money. When does he give something back?”

I looked at the rug instead of her.

Chelsea’s voice softened. “Then why are you the only one carrying bricks?”

I had no answer.

That evening, I tried harder than usual to be kind.

Scott had finally booked a paid weekend gig, and I had planned a small surprise dinner for the following night to celebrate. I had ordered food, bought dessert, and invited Chelsea and a few friends.

By 10:30, I was still at the kitchen table, finishing a report due by eight the next morning. My eyes burned.

Scott was on the couch watching TV, his takeout boxes scattered across the coffee table. The trash bag sat tied by the back door. The sink was full.

“Scott?”

He did not look away from the screen. “Yeah?”

“Can you throw those containers away and load the dishwasher before bed? I really can’t wake up to this mess tomorrow.”

He sighed. “I said I’d do it later.”

“You said that two hours ago.”

“I’m relaxing, Ariana.”

“I just need help, Scott.”

He lowered the TV volume. “Stop acting like you own me.”

My hand went still on the chair. “What?”

“You’re always telling me what to do.”

“I asked you to throw away your own garbage.”

He laughed once, sharp and ugly.

“You’re not my wife, so stop expecting me to act like your husband.”

The room went quiet.

I waited for him to take it back.

He did not.

Instead, he picked up the remote again.

“Don’t start,” he said.

I looked at the containers, the dishes, his guitar, and the rent reminder glowing on my laptop.

Nine years sat down at the table with me.

“You’re right,” I said.

He blinked. “What?”

His face softened with relief, like he thought I had finally understood him.

“Exactly. So stop putting all this pressure on me.”

I nodded once. “Okay.”

He stared at me, uncertain whether he had won.

Then he stood, grabbed his guitar, and went to bed.

I stayed in the kitchen.

I thought heartbreak would be loud. Instead, it felt like a light turning on.

I opened my banking app.

Rent. Electricity. Internet. Groceries. Scott’s phone. Two equipment payments.

All me.

—

That night, I was grateful for every paper I had saved.

Then my calendar pinged.

“Dinner for Scott.”

I stared at the reminder, then at the bedroom door. He was sleeping as if nothing had happened.

I picked up my phone and called Chelsea.

She answered on the third ring. “Ari? What’s wrong? It’s late.”