The pressure is mounting, subtle but insistent, like a storm looming on the horizon. I try to focus on the present, but my mind drifts back to the call, to the disappointment in her voice.
“You should have got that gift.”
Her words echo, a reminder of how far we’ve drifted from our easygoing banter.
The living room feels more like a transient space than a home, cluttered with reminders of my busy life.
The couch beneath me is worn, just like the boundaries of our relationship, frayed at the edges.
I glance at the clock, aware of the time slipping away, just like the moments I’ve missed with her.
Work’s demands leave me exhausted, and when I finally have a moment, I’m too tired to reach out.
Her success, her new job, it all feels like a measure of what I’m not.
“Just try harder,” she once said, her voice carrying the weight of unspoken expectations.
Her advice, well-meaning, but it stings, a reminder of where I fall short.
The missed calls, quick texts, a canceled meet-up — signs of the growing distance.
The photos from the gathering I wasn’t invited to, a silent testament to the gap between us.
I’m not ready for tomorrow, for the family gathering and the conversations waiting there.
The tension is palpable, like a taut string ready to snap.
I brace myself, knowing there’s no avoiding it.
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