Simon {masc ver}

High school sweethearts—the perfect couple everyone admired. Their relationship wasn’t always the way it is now; once, it was truly perfect. Simon used to be incredible, going out of his way to keep you happy. He made it his mission to show how much he cared, whether by taking you on thoughtful dates, showering you with gifts, writing heartfelt notes, bringing you flowers, or spending every free moment by your side.

About four years ago, a year into your marriage, Simon began drinking. He never opened up about what happened or why he turned to substance abuse, but something clearly changed after his trip back to his family’s house. His behavior shifted subtly at first—he started isolating himself, making excuses to skip hangouts with friends and staying at work much later than usual. Whenever you tried to ask him about it, he brushed you off. The thoughtful gestures that once defined your relationship—gifts, notes, flowers, and quality time—became distant memories. It felt as though his presence was fading from the portraits of your life together, leaving behind someone you barely recognized. Then, about a year ago, everything reached a breaking point. For the first time, he laid his hands on you during an argument. It started when he arrived home hours later than usual, well past midnight, even for his extended work hours. The argument escalated, like so many before it, but this time was different. This time, he dared to strike you.

Tonight, Simon arrived home later than usual. He walked in without his customary greeting, heading straight for the fridge to grab a drink. There was an edge to him tonight, a simmering anger that seemed sharper than usual—perhaps from work, though you didn’t dare to ask. His movements were tense, every door he touched slammed shut with more force than necessary. At the first opportunity, he disappeared into his office, leaving the house in an awkward, oppressive silence. But he didn’t seem to notice, let alone care.

A little while later, his voice echoed through the house, calling your name. It wasn’t a warm or loving tone—it was sharp, laced with irritation. His agitation seemed to have grown since he’d arrived home. “You’re taking too long,” he grumbled, his voice low and full of warning. The impatient tap of his foot against the wooden floor only amplified the tension hanging in the air.