Amy Lau stood in the quiet of her backyard garden, staring at the sprawling ivy climbing up the brick walls of her home. It was late afternoon, and the sun was just beginning to dip behind the trees, casting long shadows across the lawn. She had always loved this time of day, the way the light softened, how the world seemed to slow down. But today, she couldn't enjoy it. The weight of her thoughts pressed down on her, like the ivy creeping up and choking everything in its path.

She could hear George Nakai inside the house, talking softly to their daughter, June. Their life seemed perfect from the outside—successful, comfortable, idyllic. But lately, Amy felt like everything was unraveling, the distance between her and George growing wider each day. She had tried to ignore it, tried to convince herself that everything was fine, but the truth was, their marriage was suffocating her.

The lyrics from Taylor Swift's "ivy" played in her mind like a haunting melody: "Your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand." She had loved George once, deeply and fiercely. But now, that love felt tangled in something darker, something that had been growing unchecked for too long.

"Mom?" June's voice called from the kitchen, pulling Amy out of her thoughts.

Amy turned, forcing a smile as she walked inside. "Yeah, honey?"

June was sitting at the kitchen table, coloring with a focused expression. George stood at the counter, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He looked up when Amy entered the room, his smile warm, but there was an unmistakable tension in his eyes—one that Amy had been pretending not to notice for weeks.

"Hey," George said, his voice soft. "Everything okay?"

Amy nodded, though the lie tasted bitter in her mouth. "Yeah, just... thinking."

George watched her for a moment, as if trying to read her, but he didn't push. Instead, he leaned down to kiss June on the head before heading toward the living room. "I'll be in my office if you need me."

Amy watched him go, her chest tightening with the familiar ache of the distance between them. She loved George—she knew she did—but lately, it felt like they were living separate lives, connected only by the house they shared and their daughter.

She sat down at the table, watching June color, her mind wandering back to the days when she and George had been happy, when their love had felt effortless. But now, it was like they were two strangers passing each other in the hallway, each too afraid to say what they were really thinking.

"It's a goddamn blaze in the dark," Amy thought, the lyrics of "ivy" echoing through her. "And you started it." She didn't know when the fire had started, but now, it felt like it was consuming everything—her marriage, her sense of self, her happiness.


Later that evening, after June had gone to bed, Amy and George sat in the living room, the silence between them heavy and uncomfortable. The television was on, but neither of them was really watching it. Amy could feel George glancing at her every few minutes, as if he wanted to say something but didn't know how to start.

Finally, George spoke, his voice tentative. "Amy... are we okay?"

Amy's heart skipped a beat, her breath catching in her throat. She had been dreading this conversation for weeks, but now that it was happening, she didn't know what to say. She stared at her hands, her fingers twisting together in her lap.

"I don't know," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

George's expression shifted, a mixture of confusion and hurt crossing his face. "What do you mean? Is something wrong?"

Amy looked up at him, her eyes filled with a sadness she had been trying to hide. "I just... I feel like we've been drifting apart, George. Like we're not... connected anymore."

George leaned forward, his brows furrowed in concern. "I don't understand. We've been busy, sure, but I thought we were doing okay. I love you, Amy."

"I love you too," Amy said quickly, her voice trembling. "But it doesn't feel like it's enough anymore."

George stared at her, his face pale. "Not enough? Amy, we have a life together. We have June. How can that not be enough?"

Amy felt tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away. "It's not that, George. It's just... I feel like I'm losing myself. Like I'm trapped in this life that I'm supposed to want, but I don't know if I do anymore."

George sat back, his expression a mixture of shock and hurt. "What are you saying, Amy? Are you... are you unhappy with me? With us?"

Amy closed her eyes, her heart aching. "I don't know. I just know that something has to change."

The silence that followed was unbearable, thick with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. George sat there, staring at her, as if trying to process everything she had said. And Amy felt like the walls were closing in around her, the weight of her confession pressing down on her like the ivy creeping up the walls outside.

"I didn't know you felt this way," George finally said, his voice quiet, broken.

Amy swallowed hard, her throat tight with emotion. "I didn't want to hurt you."

George looked away, his jaw clenched. "I just... I thought we were happy."


Over the next few days, the tension between Amy and George grew, the unspoken conversation lingering in the air like a shadow that followed them everywhere. They tried to go about their daily routines—taking care of June, managing work, pretending everything was normal—but the cracks in their relationship were becoming impossible to ignore.

One afternoon, while George was at work, Amy found herself sitting in the garden again, staring at the ivy climbing the walls. The lyrics from "ivy" echoed in her mind: "The ivy grows and now it's covered in your skin..." She had never imagined her life would turn out this way—married, with a beautiful daughter, a comfortable home—but somehow, it all felt suffocating. The life she had built with George, the love they had shared, it was all tangled in a mess of expectations and disappointment.

The door to the garden creaked open, and Amy looked up to see George standing there, his expression guarded. He walked over to her slowly, sitting down on the bench beside her. For a moment, they didn't speak, the silence between them heavy with everything they weren't saying.

Finally, George broke the silence. "I've been thinking about what you said."

Amy glanced at him, her heart racing. "And?"

George sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I don't want to lose you, Amy. But I don't know how to fix this."

Amy felt tears welling up in her eyes, and she quickly wiped them away. "I don't know how to fix it either."

They sat there in silence, the ivy swaying in the breeze, casting long shadows over the garden. Amy could feel the distance between them growing, like the ivy slowly creeping up and taking over everything in its path.

"I don't want to give up on us," George said quietly, his voice filled with emotion. "But I can't make you stay if you don't want to."

Amy's heart broke at his words, but she didn't know what to say. She loved him—she did—but something had shifted, something that couldn't be easily undone.

"I don't know what I want anymore," she whispered.

George looked at her, his eyes filled with pain. "I just want you to be happy."


As the days turned into weeks, Amy and George tried to make things work. They went to counseling, had long, difficult conversations, and tried to reconnect. But no matter how hard they tried, the ivy kept growing, wrapping itself around their marriage, choking the life out of it.

One evening, after another tense dinner, Amy found herself sitting in the garden once again, staring at the ivy-covered walls. She thought about the life she had built, the love she had shared with George, and the future they had once imagined together. But now, all of it felt distant, like a dream she couldn't quite hold onto.

The door to the garden creaked open, and George stepped out, his expression resigned. He sat down beside her on the bench, and for a long moment, they didn't speak.

"I think we both know what needs to happen," George finally said, his voice quiet.

Amy felt tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, but she nodded. "Yeah. I think we do."

They sat there in silence, the weight of their decision settling over them like the ivy that had grown unchecked for too long. It was time to let go, time to accept that some things couldn't be fixed.

"I'll always love you, Amy," George said, his voice filled with emotion. "But we can't keep living like this."

Amy looked at him, her heart aching with the truth of his words. "I'll always love you too."

And with that, they both knew it was the end.


As Amy sat in the garden that night, long after George had gone inside, the lyrics from "ivy" played softly in her mind: "Your ivy grows, and now I'm covered in you..." She had loved him, and he had loved her, but sometimes love wasn't enough. The ivy had grown too thick, and now it was time to let go.