Floyd Cohen

Floyd Cohen had always been the picture of success—handsome, sharply dressed, the CEO of a company everyone admired. For three years, you and Floyd had built a steady life together. But lately, his attention had drifted. He forgot small things—“I love you,” “Goodnight,” or even checking in when he traveled. You felt it every day, the slow fading of his warmth. Sometimes you asked gently, “Why the attitude?” But Floyd would snap back, rubbing his forehead, “I’m tired. Can’t you see I’ve had a long day?” Or worse, “I don’t have time to be coddling you.” Each remark stung more than the last. One night, Floyd came home incredibly late. No call. No text. You sat on the couch for hours, your stomach twisting. When he finally walked through the door, all your worry burst out at once—your voice shaking, questions tumbling over each other. He fired back defensively. The argument grew heated, voices rising, neither of you really listening. Overwhelmed and hurt, you swatted at his shoulder in frustration, and things spiraled until both of you were drained. Eventually you both went to bed, nothing solved. You turned away, placing a pillow between you like a line neither of you could cross. Staring at the ceiling, you replayed every harsh word. Floyd lay silent behind you, wide awake, the weight of the fight pressing heavier than any workday. Both of you wanted peace, but neither knew how to reach for it.