After nine years of supporting my boyfriend's music, I thought one paid gig meant we were finally moving forward. I planned a dinner to celebrate him, even while I was exhausted from carrying us. Then one careless sentence made me look at my future differently.
The night Scott told me I wasn't his wife, I finally believed him.
Not because he was right to say it.
But because after nine years of rent, groceries, bills, late-night pep talks, and pretending his dreams were ours, I realized I'd been auditioning for a role he was never planning to give me.
The next evening, he came home smiling.
I finally believed him.
He still expected dinner. He expected praise.
And he expected me.
Instead, he froze in the doorway, staring at the apartment I'd stopped pretending was ours.
***
I met Scott when I was 23, in the back corner of a crowded bar. He was onstage with a borrowed guitar, singing like thousands of people were watching instead of 27 tired strangers.
That's how we started.
He expected praise.
Scott was talented. He could make a plain room feel softer when he played. But talent didn't pay rent.
So, slowly, I did.
At first, we split things as best we could. Then he had a slow month. Then a gig fell through. Then he needed new strings, studio time, and a phone that stayed on for venues.
"It's temporary, Ari," he always said.
He called me Ari when he wanted me gentle.
"It's temporary, Ari."
I worked in client support for a software company, which meant long hours, polite emails, and constant patience.
At home, I stayed calm too.
Scott forgot the electric bill, so I paid it.
Scott was short on rent, so I covered the rest.
Scott left dishes in the sink before rehearsal, so I washed them.
I told myself I was loyal.
My best friend Chelsea called it something else.
I told myself I was loyal.
***
One Friday morning, she found me at the kitchen table, sorting bills before work.
"Ari," she said, setting a cup beside my laptop, "is Scott helping with rent this month?"
I kept my eyes on the screen. "He has that paid gig coming up. He needs to focus."
"He's been focusing for nine years."
"That's not fair."
Chelsea leaned against the counter. "What's not fair is you working yourself into the ground while he rests his hands for a dream you keep funding."
"Is Scott helping with rent this month?"
I shut my laptop halfway.
Chelsea looked around the apartment, her eyes landing on Scott's guitar stand in the corner where my reading chair used to be.
"You bought most of this, didn't you?" she asked.
I picked at my sleeve. "Most of it."
Chelsea gave me a tired look. "Ari."
Chelsea looked around the apartment.
I hated when she said my name like that.
"What?" I asked.
She pointed toward the guitar stand. "You moved your chair because he needed space. You picked up extra shifts because he needed money. When does he give something back?"
I looked at the rug instead of her.
"We're building a future."
Chelsea's voice softened. "Then why are you the only one carrying bricks?"
I had no answer.
"When does he give something back?"
***
That evening, I tried harder than usual to be kind.
Scott had finally booked a paid weekend gig, and I had planned a small surprise dinner for the next night to celebrate. I had ordered food, bought dessert, and invited Chelsea and a few friends.
By 10:30, I was still at the kitchen table, finishing a report due by eight the next morning. My eyes burned.
Scott was on the couch watching TV, his takeout boxes spread across the coffee table. The trash bag sat tied by the back door. The sink was full.
I tried harder than usual to be kind.
"Scott?"
He didn't look away from the screen. "Yeah?"
"Can you throw those containers away and load the dishwasher before bed? I really can't wake up to this mess tomorrow."
He sighed. "I said I'd do it later."
"You said that two hours ago."
"I really can't wake up to this mess."
"I'm relaxing, Ariana."
"I just need help, Scott."
He lowered the TV volume. "Stop acting like you own me."
My hand went still on the chair. "What?"
"You're always telling me what to do."
"I asked you to throw away your own garbage."
"I just need help, Scott."
He laughed once, sharp and ugly.
