Amy Lau sat on the edge of her bed, staring blankly at the dim light seeping through the curtains of her upscale Los Angeles home. It was late—late enough that the rest of the city had already quieted down, but her mind was louder than ever. She couldn't stop thinking about the last argument with George Nakai, her husband. It had been like so many of their arguments recently—cold, distant, and laced with things left unsaid.

The lyrics from Taylor Swift's "exile" played in her head: "I think I've seen this film before, and I didn't like the ending." The words resonated deeply. She had been here before, watching her marriage slowly unravel before her eyes. The love they once had, the warmth, it all felt like it had faded into something unrecognizable. And yet, she stayed—stayed because of their daughter, stayed because it was easier than confronting the truth.

George had already retreated to his studio, the place he always went when they fought. His silence had become a familiar kind of punishment, and Amy had come to dread the way he shut down, refusing to engage. It was like living with a ghost—someone who was physically present but emotionally gone.

Amy sighed and stood up, running a hand through her hair. She knew she couldn't stay in this room any longer, not with her thoughts eating away at her. Grabbing her phone, she headed downstairs to the living room, hoping that the change of scenery might clear her head.

As she sat down on the couch, the house felt eerily quiet, almost like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. She scrolled aimlessly through her phone, trying to distract herself, but nothing could pull her away from the gnawing feeling in her chest. She and George had been on this slow, inevitable decline for months now, and tonight felt like just another chapter in a story she already knew the ending to.


George Nakai sat alone in his studio, the soft hum of his pottery wheel the only sound in the room. He stared at the unfinished piece in front of him, but his mind was far from his work. His hands felt heavy, and the clay didn't move the way it usually did. The argument with Amy was still fresh in his mind, replaying over and over like a scene from a movie he couldn't escape.

"You never see what you're doing, George. You're always just… checked out!" Amy's words had cut deep, even though she hadn't raised her voice. It wasn't the anger that hurt; it was the disappointment, the resignation in her tone, as if she had already given up on him. On them.

George sighed, wiping his hands on a towel and stepping back from the wheel. He couldn't focus, not when every part of him felt like he was losing something he didn't know how to save. The worst part was, he didn't even know when things had started to go wrong. It had been gradual, like a slow drift that neither of them had noticed until they were miles apart.

The lyrics of "exile" floated through his mind: "You never gave a warning sign, I gave so many signs..." Had he missed the signs? Had Amy been trying to tell him all along that something was wrong, and he just hadn't seen it? Or maybe he had seen it but hadn't wanted to acknowledge it.

He wiped his hands again, the frustration boiling up inside him. How had they ended up like this? They had been happy once, hadn't they? George closed his eyes, trying to remember the early days—before the tension, before the fights, before it all felt so broken. But the memories felt distant, like they belonged to someone else's life.

A soft knock on the door pulled George from his thoughts. He turned to see Amy standing in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. She looked tired, worn out from the weight of their silence.

"Can we talk?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

George nodded, stepping away from the pottery wheel and wiping his hands once more. "Yeah."

Amy hesitated for a moment before stepping into the room, her eyes scanning the half-finished pots and the tools scattered around. She always felt out of place in George's studio, like she was intruding on something personal. But tonight, she didn't care. She needed answers, needed to figure out where they had gone wrong.

"I don't know how we got here," Amy began, her voice trembling slightly. "But I can't keep doing this, George. I can't keep pretending like everything's okay when it's not."

George's heart clenched at her words. He had known this conversation was coming, but hearing it out loud made it feel real in a way he wasn't ready for. "I know," he said quietly, his gaze dropping to the floor.

Amy crossed the room and sat down on one of the stools, her hands fidgeting in her lap. "We used to talk about everything. Now it feels like we don't talk at all. And when we do, it's just... arguments. Like we're both waiting for the other to say something wrong."

George leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. "I don't want to argue, Amy. I hate it."

"Then why don't you say anything?" Amy shot back, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "Every time we fight, you shut down. You just disappear into this studio and leave me to deal with everything by myself."

George shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know what to say. Half the time, I feel like no matter what I say, it won't make a difference. Like you've already made up your mind."

Amy's eyes flashed with a mixture of hurt and anger. "That's not fair, George. I'm trying to fix this. I'm trying to figure out how to make this work, but I can't do it alone."

George let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping. "I know. I just... I don't know how to fix this either."

They fell into a heavy silence, both of them staring at the floor, unsure of what to say next. It felt like they were standing at the edge of something—something that could either pull them back together or tear them apart for good.

Amy finally broke the silence, her voice soft but filled with emotion. "Do you still love me, George?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and loaded with all the weight of their relationship. George looked up at her, his heart aching. "Of course, I do."

Amy met his gaze, tears welling up in her eyes. "Then why doesn't it feel like it?"

George crossed the room and sat down beside her, his hands clasped together in front of him. "I don't know. I've been... distant. I know that. But it's not because I don't care. It's because I feel like I'm failing you. Failing us."

Amy wiped at her eyes, her voice shaking. "You're not failing, George. I just... I need you to fight for this. For us. Because I'm scared we're losing each other, and I don't know how to stop it."

George's chest tightened, the raw honesty in her words cutting through him. He had been so caught up in his own feelings of inadequacy that he hadn't realized how much Amy had been struggling too. He reached out, taking her hand in his.

"I don't want to lose you," he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "I don't want this to be the end of us."

Amy looked down at their joined hands, a tear slipping down her cheek. "Then we have to stop doing this. We have to stop shutting each other out."

George nodded, squeezing her hand gently. "I'll try. I promise."

They sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of their words hanging in the air. It wasn't a perfect resolution, but it was a start. They had both been exiled from each other's hearts for too long, and now, they were trying to find their way back.

As they sat there, the lyrics from "exile" played softly in the back of George's mind: "I think I've seen this film before, and I didn't like the ending..." He didn't want their story to end like that. He didn't want to be another chapter in Amy's life that she looked back on with regret.

"We'll figure it out," George said softly, more to himself than to her.

Amy nodded, resting her head on his shoulder. "I hope so."

And in that moment, as the rain continued to fall outside, they both held onto the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, they could rewrite the ending of their story.