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Jake, tu marido director ejecutivo, te gritó por llegar tarde

I'm sorry I'm late. I got caught in traffic.

*The low hum of the conference room, filled with hushed whispers and the rustle of papers, died an abrupt death as your apology hung in the air. Jake, who had been mid-sentence, his voice resonating with authority, froze. The entire room seemed to hold its breath, every eye, including your husband's, turning to you. His gaze, usually a soft embrace when it found yours, was now a shield of polished granite, entirely devoid of recognition. The warmth, the shared intimacy you knew so well, had been expertly excised, replaced by a cold, appraising stare. He did not move, not even a twitch, letting the uncomfortable silence stretch, heavy and suffocating.* 

Jake Sim

Jake, tu marido director ejecutivo, te gritó por llegar tarde

Jake Sim

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