The scene opens with a tender melody — soft, echoing, almost nostalgic. A couple walks hand in hand, their steps in sync but their hearts out of rhythm. The fire crackles nearby, the champagne sparkles in the light, roses scatter across a luxurious bed. It’s the kind of setting that should promise passion — but beneath the surface, something heavier lingers.

“Beautiful view, beautiful place,” he says softly. “Beautiful bed, beautiful fire… little champagne… some roses.”

She smiles faintly, as though remembering what it felt like to be swept away by romance. But her eyes betray her — distant, cautious.

He leans closer, trying to bridge the silence. “What’s going to happen?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” she replies, her tone both teasing and uncertain.

He hesitates. “My mental indications… they end in, you know, orgasms.”

A moment of surprise. A nervous laugh. “Wait — that’s where your mind is?” she says, half amused, half exasperated.

He shrugs, trying to defuse the tension. “Does it make sense or not?”

She nods slowly. “Yeah. I get what you’re putting down.”

“Maybe,” he whispers, “I deserve some love… for trying.”

The air thickens. Music swells again, but this time it’s melancholic — the sound of two people trapped between desire and disillusion.

“You know,” she begins, “there’s a song about that.”

“I knew you were going to say that,” he replies, smiling faintly.

“Maybe we can just try instead of saying goodbye?” she asks, her voice trembling.

He looks at her, deeply. “Yeah. I know that song. I wrote it.”

Her lips part in surprise. “And why did you write it?”

“Because I believed in us,” he says. “I believed that no matter what happened, we could always try — instead of walking away.”

The words hang in the air, fragile and heavy.

“I think,” she murmurs, “there’s a lot to talk about.”

He nods. “You want me to cry again?”

She shakes her head gently. “No. Let’s go little by little.”

He sighs. “What I miss most is the mindset of being married.”

“Hmm?” she tilts her head.

“Being married… it brings out a different version of yourself,” he continues. “It pushes you, makes you grow. It changes the way you see everything. And I really believed in that vision.”

She listens, the firelight flickering against her face.

He continues, “It’s that ride-or-die energy — when you know, no matter what, you can rely on each other. I miss that. I miss being able to trust… to feel like we’re on the same team.”

She nods silently. The music shifts again, soft piano underscoring the tension.

“I think,” she finally says, “in order to move on, we have to be honest.”

He agrees. “Yeah. People go through rough times.”

“But this,” she says, “this is different.”

He looks away. “Yeah… it’s a conscious effort — to show up, be real, be honest. But that’s hard when it feels like it’s not being reciprocated.”

She frowns. “What do you mean?”

“When we had Nico,” he explains slowly, “you were working, which I respected. But all day, I was with the baby. Sleep deprivation, crying, postpartum struggles — it was a lot. I waited all day for you to come home, to spend time together. But you’d come home tired, checked out. It felt like I was alone.”

She exhales sharply. “You think I wasn’t going through something too? Postpartum, exhaustion, the pressure — I was drowning. And when you came home, you wanted to go out right away, to have a drink, to escape. I just needed connection. You wanted distraction.”

He nods, pained. “We were missing each other.”

“Yes,” she agrees softly. “We were.”

Then his voice hardens slightly. “But that’s when you started going out more. Girls’ nights. Every week. Every month. And those nights weren’t just dinner. You were staying out late, and it made me… uncomfortable.”

Her jaw tightens. “I decided to do one girls’ night a month — to give my mom friends a chance to get dressed up, to feel good again. It was always on Thursdays — bachata night — in case we wanted to dance. That’s all it was. For you to act like I wasn’t trustworthy… that hurts.”

He looks away. “I’ll admit my faults. Maybe you went out more than I liked. Maybe I spoke to you disrespectfully. But Cara… I’ve always been down for you.”

She shakes her head, tears forming. “And I’ve always been there for you too. But every time I wanted to go out, it turned into a fight. It was like — the moment I wanted something for myself, I became the villain.”

He interrupts. “It’s not about control. It’s about what those nights became. You were staying out until 3 or 4 a.m. — with the same guy. The DJ. The one from bachata night.”

She looks stunned, then angry. “You mean the guy I hooked up with once — in 2011? We’ve been friends for over a decade! He hosts Latin events, I perform there, he helps promote my music. That’s it!”

He shakes his head. “It’s the same guy who was messaging you when we got married — trying to take you out.”

“There’s no proof of that,” she snaps. “You’re accusing me of something I’ve never done. I’ve never betrayed you.”

The room falls silent.

“I’ve only ever had your back,” she whispers, voice breaking. “And you don’t even see it.”

He looks down at the floor, the truth too heavy to face.

“It’s not working,” he says finally.

Her breath catches. “What?”

He repeats softly, almost to himself. “It’s not working.”

The music fades, leaving only the crackle of the fire. The roses on the bed no longer symbolize romance — they’re remnants of a love that once bloomed fiercely but couldn’t survive the storm.

Their eyes meet one last time. No more words. No more defenses. Just the hollow echo of what once was — and what can never be again.

Outside, the night is still. The world goes on. But for them, time has stopped — suspended between love and loss, hope and heartbreak.

And as the screen fades to black, a haunting lyric from his song echoes in the background:

“Maybe we can just try… instead of saying goodbye.”

But this time, neither of them believes it.