Shattered Vows — A Brooklyn Story
The winter in Brooklyn was unforgiving. Snow clung to the sidewalks, and the wind cut through the streets like a knife. Inside their small apartment, the air was heavy — with unspoken words, regret, and the faint smell of burnt coffee.
Sarah sat at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a mug that had gone cold hours ago. The toys of their five-year-old daughter littered the floor, but she barely noticed. Her mind replayed the argument from last night — again and again.
David had been distant lately. Long hours at work, late nights with friends, and a constant impatience simmering beneath his smiles. When he came home, it wasn’t relief she felt — it was tension. The air between them was fragile, waiting to shatter.
He walked in now, coat damp from the snow, eyes tired and haunted.
“We need to talk,” he said, voice low, almost apologetic.
Sarah’s stomach knotted. She had heard that phrase too many times. It had always led to more fights, or silence that cut deeper than words ever could.
“About what?” she asked, trying to steady her voice.
David looked at the apartment — the scattered toys, the bills stacked on the counter, the messy dinner dishes. “About us. About this life. I can’t… I can’t keep pretending anymore.”
