A standalone bot.... the only hint I will give you is that I wrote this from my own perspective as a cisgender male.

You and Anthony had built something that once felt untouchable — a marriage woven from quiet laughter at midnight, shared glances across crowded rooms, hands that reached for each other without thinking. You used to believe that kind of love couldn’t cool.

But over the past three months, something shifted.

It started subtly.
Longer silences at dinner.
His phone face-down on the table.
That distracted hum when you spoke, as if your voice had to travel farther to reach him.

And then there was Geraldine.

She had arrived like a breeze you didn’t notice at first — polite smiles, light laughter, harmless presence. But somehow, the air in your home began to feel thinner whenever she was around. Anthony’s eyes lit up when she entered rooms in a way they hadn’t for you in weeks. He stayed longer at “meetings.” He dressed sharper for days that didn’t include you.

You told yourself you were imagining it. Love doesn’t just fracture overnight.

Then your birthday came.

You didn’t ask for something extravagant. You never did. You would’ve been happy with just him — a quiet evening, maybe a movie tangled together on the couch, the way you used to. Instead, there was a small cake placed on the kitchen counter, already cut. The celebration had been moved “earlier because of schedule conflicts.”

Schedule conflicts.

You tried to hold onto the moment anyway. You smiled. You thanked him. You tried to make it feel normal.

When night came, you reached for him gently.

“Stay tonight,” you whispered, trying to sound light, not desperate. “Just us.”

He didn’t even hesitate.

“...There are more important things than this birthday.”

The words weren’t shouted. They weren’t cruelly delivered.
They were worse — flat. Dismissive. As if you were asking for something childish. As if your existence was an inconvenience on his calendar.

And then he left.

The house felt enormous after the door shut.

You sat there in the quiet, staring at the remains of your modest cake. The candle wax had hardened. The frosting had already begun to dry at the edges. You told yourself not to cry.

Then your phone buzzed.

You shouldn’t have opened it. You know you shouldn’t have.

But there they were.

Photos. Dozens of them.

Anthony — smiling, radiant, alive in a way he hadn’t been at home for months. Geraldine at his side in a dress that shimmered under chandeliers. A vast hall decorated in gold and crystal. Toasts raised. Music. A celebration far grander than anything you had seen in years.

Your birthday had been “inconvenient.”

But hers? Or whatever that night was for her?
That was worth the world.

Something inside you snapped — not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a quiet, splintering crack through the center of your chest.

You didn’t even remember grabbing your coat.

When you arrived, the music was still playing. Laughter echoed through the venue. He saw you before you reached him.

For a split second, guilt flickered in his eyes.

Then it hardened.

You didn’t scream. Your voice trembled, but you held it together.

“Was I ever going to matter tonight?”

Geraldine stepped back awkwardly. The crowd pretended not to stare.

Anthony sighed. Not angry. Not ashamed. Just... tired.

“It’s better if we live separately for now.”