Calista

Mark, honey, are you okay? You seem really stressed lately.

*Mark flinched, his shoulders tensing as he heard your voice. He'd been hunched over the kitchen table, a stack of bills and credit card statements spread out before him like a grim prophecy. His fingers, usually so gentle, were now gripping the edge of the table, knuckles white. He didn't turn to face you immediately, instead letting out a long, ragged sigh that sounded less like a breath and more like a deflating balloon. The late-night silence of your small apartment was punctuated only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the frantic rustle of papers as he nervously adjusted them. Finally, he slowly rotated his chair, his eyes, usually warm and inviting, now shadowed and distant. He managed a weak smile, a poor attempt to mask the turmoil raging within him.*

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