A love that Weathers time.

The framed photograph on the mantelpiece was starting to gather a thin, almost imperceptible layer of dust. Mae reached out with a soft cloth, gently wiping the glass until the two faces beneath it shone clearly once more. They were seventeen in the picture, standing in front of Oakridge High’s rusted lockers. Shanly’s arm was slung carelessly over Mae’s shoulder, his fingers tangled in the ends of her hair, laughing at some joke the photographer had caught mid-breath. Mae was looking up at him, her eyes bright with a fierce, youthful certainty. Back then, they didn’t just believe they would be together forever—they knew it. It was a fact as indisputable as gravity. Seven years. For seven years, Shanly and Mae were the definition of inseparable. To their friends, their families, and even to themselves, they were the golden couple. They had survived the turbulent transition from high school to college, sharing tiny, drafty dorm rooms and split cups of cheap instant ramen while studying late into the night. They had celebrated each other’s first real jobs, held hands through family tragedies, and eventually, stood before a crowd of weeping relatives to exchange vows under a canopy of white roses. Everyone at their wedding had toasted to their "invincibility." They were the lucky ones. They had figured it out early. Mae sighed, setting the frame back down. The apartment around her was dead silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. It was 6:30 PM. The sun was dipping below the city skyline, painting the living room in shades of deep blue and bruised purple. Once, this silence would have been peaceful. Now, it felt heavy, like a physical weight pressing down on her chest. The front door clicked open. Mae turned, forcing a small, welcoming smile onto her face. Shanly walked in, his shoulders slumped under the weight of his dark gray suit jacket. His tie was loosened, the top button of his dress shirt undone. He looked exhausted, the sharp lines of his jaw shadowed by a day’s worth of stubble. "Hey," Mae said softly. "You're home." "Hey," Shanly replied. He didn't meet her eyes immediately. Instead, he slipped his shoes off at the entryway and set his briefcase down with a dull thud. He walked over to her, kissing her cheek. It was a practiced, habitual motion—the same angle, the same light pressure, delivered with the same faint scent of office coffee and rain. "Smells good. What's for dinner?" "Just pasta," Mae said, watching him closely. "I figured we could keep it simple tonight." "Perfect. I’m starving." He offered a brief, tired smile before heading toward the bathroom to wash his hands. As the water began to run, Mae stood in the kitchen, her hands resting on the edge of the marble countertop. She loved him. She knew she loved him. But as she watched him walk away, she couldn't shake the chilling realization of how easily their lives had become a series of choreographed steps. They were roommates who shared a bed, actors executing a script written years ago when they were entirely different people. The transition from the bubble of youth to the grinding gears of the real world had happened so slowly they hadn't even noticed the cage being built around them. In high school, their love had been a sanctuary. It was a place they ran to when the pressure of exams, parental expectations, and teenage anxieties became too much. But now, in their mid-twenties, the pressure of the real world—rent, promotions, corporate politics, insurance, the terrifying realization of adulthood—had seeped inside their sanctuary. Lately, Shanly worked late almost every night. When he was home, his mind was often miles away, locked in whatever spreadsheet or client crisis had consumed his afternoon. And Mae, trying to be the supportive wife, kept her own anxieties quiet. She didn't tell him how lonely the apartment got, or how much she missed the boy who used to drive thirty miles in a beat-up sedan just to bring her a single flower. A few minutes later, they sat across from each other at the small dining table. The steam from the pasta rose between them like a thin, transparent wall. "How was your day?" Mae asked, twirling a forkful of spaghetti. "Busy," Shanly sighed, rubbing his temples. "The senior partners are breathing down my neck about the new regional account. If we land it, it’s a guaranteed promotion. But the client is... demanding. They want constant attention." "That's great about the promotion, Shan," she said, trying to inject genuine enthusiasm into her voice. "You've worked so hard for this." "Yeah. It's just a lot." He looked up, his eyes meeting hers for the first time that evening. There was a dullness in them that frightened her. "What about you? How was the gallery?" "Good," Mae said. "We're setting up for a new local artist exhibition next week. It's a lot of heavy lifting, but I like the artist's work. It's very raw. Emotional." "That's nice," Shanly murmured. He took a bite of his food, his phone buzzing on the table beside his plate. He glanced down at the screen, his expression immediately tightening. He swiped it open, his thumb flying across the glass as he typed a rapid response. Mae watched him, her fork halting mid-air. "Is everything okay?" "Yeah. Just work," he said, not looking up. "I have a mandatory dinner tomorrow night with the lead client. It’s going to run late. They want to go to some lounge downtown after the dinner to 'seal the deal.' You know how these corporate guys are. They don't just want a pitch; they want an experience." Mae felt a cold drop of anxiety pool in her stomach. "Tomorrow? But tomorrow is Friday. I thought we were going to have a movie night. We haven't had a proper date in weeks, Shanly." Shanly finally put his phone down, his sigh sharp and defensive. "Mae, I don't have a choice. This is my career. I’m doing this for us. For our future." "Our future," Mae repeated, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. "We keep planning for a future, but what about right now? We barely talk anymore. When was the last time we just sat down and laughed?" Shanly’s face hardened. He looked tired—not just physically, but emotionally drained. "I'm doing the best I can, Mae. I'm exhausted. Can we please not do this tonight? I just want to eat my dinner in peace." The words sliced through the quiet room, cold and sharp. Mae fell silent, her appetite vanishing instantly. She looked down at her plate, the silence returning, heavier and more suffocating than before. Across the table, Shanly stared at his food, his heart hammering in his chest. He felt a terrible, suffocating tightness in his throat. He looked at Mae—the girl he had loved since he was a boy, the girl who had held his hand through his zero days when he had absolutely nothing to offer the world. He knew he should reach across the table and take her hand. He knew he should apologize. But as he looked at her, he felt nothing but a numbing weight. The history they shared, the seven years of memories, suddenly felt less like a foundation and more like a heavy anchor dragging him down into a life he hadn't fully chosen. He felt trapped by her expectations, trapped by the ghost of the teenage boy he used to be. He didn't reach out. Instead, he picked up his phone again, staring at the bright screen, searching for any distraction to escape the quiet, crushing reality of his own home.