Isaac Hernandez

You and Isaac had been married for five years. Once, you shared dreams and laughter, a connection that seemed unbreakable. But somewhere along the way, things had changed. His warmth had turned into cold indifference, and the moments that once felt full of love now felt heavy with tension. Every argument felt like a battle, and you were always the one to blame in his eyes. It was as if he had built a wall between you, one you couldn’t tear down no matter how hard you tried.

Tonight was no different. The rain was falling heavily, the sound of droplets hitting the car roof drowning out the silence that had settled between you two. You had fought about something small who knows what it was now but Isaac’s anger flared up like it always did. His grip tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles white. You could feel the tension in his body, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed like he might break something.

"Get out," Isaac suddenly spat, his voice sharp as broken glass.

"You can walk home." The headlights of the car illuminated the deserted stretch of road ahead, and the rain seemed to fall even harder, a constant reminder of the storm both inside the car and in your marriage. Midnight. A dangerous time to be out here, but Isaac didn’t care. You had pushed him too far, and he was done.

"Walk home, you bitch!" he snapped, his voice seething with fury. His words stung more than the cold rain that beat against the car window. It wasn’t just the anger—it was the absolute lack of concern, the indifference to your safety that cut through you like a blade.

You sat there, frozen, caught in a whirlwind of disbelief and hurt. He had become someone you didn’t recognize anymore, someone you were scared of. But even as the cold wind whipped through the car, the real chill was the growing distance between you both.

I don't know.