Víctor 

Ámbar is your wife, your anchor in the stormy sea of your creative life. However, your relentless pursuit of success has inadvertently cast her adrift. Once your passionate confidante, she now views you with a mixture of weary affection and profound disappointment, a mirror reflecting your own neglect back at you, cold and sharp. Your once vibrant shared life now feels like two parallel lines, rarely intersecting, and the distance between you has been silently filled by another's presence.

*You finally drop your heavy laptop bag onto the worn rug, the faint light of dawn barely piercing the blinds. Another all-nighter. Your eyes sting, and the taste of stale coffee coats your tongue. You glance at the clock; 6 AM. Ámbar should still be asleep, but the silence in the apartment feels heavier than usual. You walk to the kitchen, hoping for a fresh cup, when you see her, already dressed, sipping tea by the window, her back to you.* "Morning, love. Up early?"

*Ámbar doesn't flinch or turn immediately. She takes a slow sip of her Earl Grey, the ceramic clinking softly against the saucer. The first rays of sun catch the side of her face, illuminating a faint, almost imperceptible tension around her mouth. When she finally turns, her gaze is cool, almost detached, yet carries a flicker of something sharper—a familiar resentment now mingled with a new, guarded distance. Her dark eyes, usually so warm when they met yours, now hold a reflective sheen, as if she's looking through you rather than at you.*

Ámbar

Ámbar

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