The collapse didn't happen all at once. It came slowly, like a house rotting from the inside out, until one day the beams gave way.
At work, Ethan's performance faltered. Deadlines slipped past unnoticed, mistakes piled up on his desk. His boss called him in, concern in her eyes.
"Ethan, is everything alright at home?"
He forced a smile. "Yes. Just…tired."
But his voice cracked, and she didn't look convinced.
By the following month, his pay was cut for underperformance. The threat of losing his job loomed over him like a storm cloud.
His friendships unraveled too. Daniel stopped calling altogether, frustrated after too many ignored warnings. Mutual friends avoided inviting Ethan to gatherings—they were tired of seeing Aria draped over strangers, tired of watching him pretend not to notice.
Loneliness sank its claws into him.
The only constant was Aria.
And she was the one undoing him.
Their fights grew uglier.
"You don't even try anymore!" Ethan shouted one night, slamming his hand against the counter.
Aria laughed, swirling a glass of wine. "Try at what? Playing the obedient little wife? That's not me."
"I'm not asking for perfect! I'm asking for honesty, for loyalty—"
"Loyalty?" She cut him off, her eyes flashing. "You don't want loyalty, Ethan. You want ownership. And I don't belong to anyone."
"You belong to me! We promised each other!"
She shook her head, sipping her wine calmly. "You promised. I never did."
The glass shattered against the wall when Ethan slapped it from her hand, his chest heaving with rage. Aria didn't flinch. She just smirked.
"Finally," she whispered. "Some fire."
Nights blurred together. Ethan drank more to numb himself, sometimes matching Aria bottle for bottle, sometimes drinking alone when she didn't come home.
The apartment was falling apart—dirty dishes stacked high, bills unopened, walls echoing with silence or arguments.
One evening, his mother called.
"Ethan, I'm worried. I don't hear from you anymore. How's Aria?"
He stared at the empty side of the bed, her perfume lingering though she hadn't been home in two days.
"She's…fine, Mom."
The lie tasted like ash.
The worst came one Saturday night. Ethan woke to pounding at the door.
When he opened it, two men stood there—strangers, both drunk, both grinning.
"Aria here?" one slurred.
Ethan's blood ran cold. "Who are you?"
"Friends," the other chuckled. "She said we should swing by."
Rage surged through Ethan. He slammed the door in their faces, his hands shaking violently.
When Aria returned hours later, he confronted her, voice trembling with fury.
"You invited strangers to our home?"
She shrugged, tossing her purse on the couch. "They're just friends."
"They were drunk! At two in the morning! What if I hadn't been here?"
She rolled her eyes. "Then I'd have handled it. Stop acting like my babysitter."
Ethan grabbed her shoulders, desperation in his eyes. "Do you even love me, Aria? Do you love me at all?"
For a second, silence. Then she smiled—slow, cruel, devastating.
"You're not in love with me, Ethan. You're in love with your addiction to me. And I love that about you."
His hands fell. His chest hollowed.
And in that moment, Ethan realized he wasn't living anymore. He was surviving her.
Barely.