Tear to wither away

Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Building a Life Together

In the early years, life was a whirlwind of ambition and adjustment. They moved into a tiny one-bedroom apartment above a bakery—every morning, the scent of fresh croissants drifted up through the floorboards. Vincent pursued a career in real estate, starting as a junior agent at a local firm, spending weekends at open houses with a clipboard and a too-wide smile. Anne worked part-time at a local gallery called *The Blue Door*, a narrow storefront downtown with creaky wooden floors and walls covered in local artists’ work. She curated shows, framed pieces, and on slow afternoons, painted in the back room while the owner, Mr. Patel, brewed chai for customers.

They bought a cozy house in the suburbs two years later—a fixer-upper with peeling yellow paint and a crooked mailbox. Vincent negotiated the price down himself, bragging about it for weeks. Anne spent months sanding floors, painting walls soft sage green, hanging her own canvases in the hallway. They filled it with second-hand furniture: a velvet couch from a yard sale, a dining table Vincent refinished in the garage, mismatched chairs painted sunshine yellow. On weekends, they dreamed aloud—Vincent sketching floor plans for additions, Anne imagining a sunlit studio in the attic. “Two kids,” he’d say, kissing her forehead. “A boy and a girl. We’ll teach them football and how to paint.”

Sarah visited often, kicking off her shoes at the door, bringing cheap wine and gossip from her job at the hair salon. “You two are disgustingly domestic,” she’d tease, sprawling on the couch while Anne cooked pasta and Vincent grilled chicken on the tiny back patio. Liam dropped by on holidays, bringing his guitar and singing off-key covers of old rock songs until Margaret scolded him for waking the neighbors. Even Mrs. Harlow, the elderly widow next door with her rose garden and endless supply of homemade jam, became part of their orbit—she’d wave Anne over the fence for tea and stories about her late husband, a sailor who’d died at sea.

But as Vincent’s work hours grew longer, their evenings together became shorter. He’d come home after 9 p.m., tie loosened, eyes bloodshot from staring at contracts. Anne would heat up leftovers, sit across from him at the table, waiting for conversation that never came. “How was your day?” she’d ask. “Fine. Tired,” he’d mutter, scrolling through his phone. She’d retreat to her easel in the spare room, painting by lamplight while he fell asleep on the couch to sports highlights. The distance was subtle at first—a missed anniversary dinner, a forgotten birthday—but it grew like ivy, slow and insidious, wrapping around the life they’d built.