couple you please write a fic where michael like forgets an anniversary cause of practice and we like give him the silent treatment for 2 days while he’s like yearning ?
7:00
synopsis — 𓍼ོ.☘︎ ݁˖༘⋆ : michael misses your third anniversary dinner and you wait alone at the restaurant. when he finds out, he’s overwhelmed with guilt and tries to fix what went wrong.
themes — 𓍼ོ.☘︎ ݁˖༘⋆ : fem reader, missed love, guilt, regret, angst, fluff
wc — 𓍼ོ.☘︎ ݁˖༘⋆ : 3,067
wanna see more? here’s my masterlist! ݁ ˖Ი𐑼ֶָ֢
request = open 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 𓍼ོ.☘︎ ݁˖༘⋆
the reservation sat at the edge of the table. the warm light spilled across the table, two untouched glasses of water, napkins folded too neatly. the restaurant carried that mix of garlic and melted wax, soft music played somewhere overhead, blending into the low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of cutlery. everything around you kept moving forward.
your table didn’t.
every time the front door opened, you looked up too fast, every single time.
your heart jumped before you could stop it, sharp and hopeful, and then it sank just as quickly when it wasn’t him. strangers came and went, laughing, brushing snow off their coats, shaking off the cold, and each time your body betrayed you the same way. shoulders tightening, breath catching. that small, stupid flicker of hope you told yourself you wouldn’t let happen again. but it kept happening anyway. you kept looking for michael.
the waiter came by with a careful kind of politeness, hands folded behind his back.
“do you need a little more time?”
you nodded before he finished the sentence.
“yeah. just… a bit longer.”
he left you with two menus you hadn’t opened and a bouquet of white lilies sitting across from you like a reminder you didn’t want to read. your phone was face-down beside your plate. you turned it over anyway.
nothing. no missed calls. no new messages. your reflection stared back from the black screen, eyes a little too wide, expression held together by habit. your thumb hovered over his name. didn’t press. hovered again. you knew what would happen if you called.
you could already hear it—his voice on the other end, warm, rushed, apologetic.
“baby, i’m sorry—rehearsal ran over.”
or worse—
“just give me twenty minutes.”
twenty minutes that would stretch into an hour. then two. then nothing you could count anymore.
your throat tightened as you locked the phone again.
if he remembered, he would come. you didn’t want to be the one who had to make him remember.
7:30 p.m.
couples around you were finishing dessert, chairs scraping softly against the floor as people left one by one, their laughter fading into the distance. the restaurant slowly emptied itself out, like the night was moving on without asking if you were ready. your table stayed the same.
you checked your phone again. then again.
your thumb lingered over his contact longer this time, almost pressing—then pulling away at the last second. your breath wavered.
just call him.
just once.
but even as the thought came, you already knew how it would sound. you already knew the apology before it arrived. you already knew how easily it would soften you, how quickly you’d fold it back into hope again.
so you didn’t.
you put the phone down like it weighed too much to hold.
8:15 p.m.
the candle had burned low enough now that the flame looked uncertain. the restaurant had gone quiet in a different way—less busy, more final. like the end of something that had already happened.
the waiter returned, slower this time.
he didn’t ask if you needed more time.
he just looked at the table, then at you, with something softer in his expression.
“would you like me to box up the dessert?”
you frowned slightly. “dessert?”
a pause.
“your reservation noted it was an anniversary.”
the words didn’t feel loud, but they hit hard anyway.
for a moment, you couldn’t quite process them. your hands tightened around the edge of the table as if it could steady you. the candle hissed softly. somewhere behind you, someone laughed, and it felt too normal for the way your chest had just gone tight.
“oh,” you said finally.
small. flat. empty.
you reached across the table and picked up the lilies. they were colder than you expected, petals brushing against your wrist as you pulled them into your lap.
“thank you,” you said quietly, forcing something close to a smile. “sorry about all this.”
the waiter shook his head.
“no need to apologize.”
he hesitated, like he wanted to say more, then didn’t.
“i hope your night gets better.”
you nodded like that was something you could agree with.
outside, the air hit you harder than you expected.
the warmth of the restaurant disappeared instantly behind you, replaced by wind that cut through your coat and pulled at your hair. the street were alive in the way cities are at night. someone crossed the street holding hands, leaning into each other like it was the most natural thing in the world. no hesitation. no waiting. you looked down at the lilies in your arms. after a moment, you set them down on a nearby bench.
carefully.
like if you were gentle enough, it wouldn’t feel like leaving.
it was your third anniversary.
and he didn’t show.
the house was silent when michael walked through the front door just after midnight. his rehearsal bag slipped from his shoulder with a dull thud against the floor. he barely noticed, and his muscles ached from hours of dancing, his calves tight, his voice hoarse from singing through the same songs again and again.
despite the exhaustion written across his face, he couldn’t help smiling to himself.
today had been productive. they’d finally nailed the routine he’d been struggling with all week, and his director had actually nodded in approval instead of asking for one more take. the relief of that had carried him through the last hour of rehearsal, even when the studio lights had turned hot and blinding, even when sweat had soaked through the back of his shirt and his shoes had started to stick to the floor. the music was still ringing in his ears, the beat still lodged in his chest. absentmindedly, he hummed the melody as he kicked off his shoes near the door.
“mama?”
his voice echoed through the house.
“you awake?”
nothing.
he frowned. usually you’d answer immediately. even if it was just a sleepy “in here.” even if you were half buried under blankets or curled up on the couch with a book you’d long since stopped reading. usually there was some sign of you—soft footsteps, the glow of a lamp, the sound of your voice drifting from another room.
instead, silence.
michael wandered farther inside.
“you asleep already mama?”
still nothing. his eyes drifted toward the kitchen. then, they landed on the calendar hanging beside the refrigerator.
november 2nd, circled carefully in red ink. a tiny heart drawn beside it, our anniversary.
everything inside him stopped. the smile vanished, his stomach dropped, cold and sudden. his mouth went dry.
“no.”
the word came out broken. the house, warm a second ago, now felt airless. the candle scent in the room turned sour in his throat. slowly his gaze lowered, the reservation card. still sitting exactly where you’d left it that morning.
7:00 p.m.
your favorite restaurant.
he remembered you smiling while placing it on the counter before he’d rushed out the door. you’d been dressed for the day already, hair done, eyes bright, looking at him with that hopeful expression he knew so well.
“don’t work too hard today.”
you’d laughed when you said it, light and teasing, like you were trying to make the warning sound casual even though you both knew what tonight meant.
he’d kissed your forehead without thinking.
“i won’t.”
his knees nearly gave out. the card blurred for a second, then sharpened again, each printed line suddenly cruel in its simplicity. his chest tightened so hard it hurt to breathe.
“oh god…”
his whisper cracked. his breathing turned uneven as realization crashed over him all at once. you’d waited, you’d gotten dressed, you’d gone. alone.
while he’d been under bright rehearsal lights, counting steps and harmonies and cues, while he’d been laughing with the cast and chasing perfection and telling himself he’d check his phone after just one more run-through, you’d been sitting in a restaurant with flowers and candles and a table meant for two.
he dragged both hands down his face, fingers trembling.
the house suddenly felt too small, too quiet. his chest tightened painfully as he stared at the reservation card, at the neat handwriting.
he stared at the reservation card, at the red circle around the date, and the truth hit him with the force of a slammed door.
he left you alone on our anniversary, and somewhere in that restaurant the candle at your table had burned down to a trembling little stump beside the untouched dessert, lighting the empty chair where i should have been.
he checked the bedroom first, empty. the bathroom, empty.
“mama?”
his voice scraped through the apartment and came back thin and wrong, swallowed by the hush.
he pulled his phone from his pocket and called you. it rang once, then dropped into voicemail. he tried again. voicemail.
“…please.”
his eyes snagged on the front door. the space where your overnight bag usually sat was bare. so were your slippers, tucked nowhere by the wall, no soft scuff of them on the tile, no sign you’d only stepped out for a minute.
his chest tightened hard enough to hurt. you hadn’t gone for a walk, you’d left.
he braced himself against the kitchen counter, fingers slipping on the cool laminate, one trembling hand covering his mouth as he stared at the floor and tried to breathe through the panic clawing up his throat.
the house felt wrong the next morning. your coffee mug was still in the cabinet. your side of the bed was smooth and cold, untouched, the sheets pulled tight where no body had warmed them.
he kept looking toward the bedroom, every few seconds jerking his head up at the smallest sound, expecting to hear your footsteps, the familiar creak of the floorboards, your voice calling back to him.
instead, nothing.
rehearsal blurred at the edges. he missed counts, came in late on cues, forgot choreography he’d drilled into his muscles for weeks. sweat cooled on the back of his neck. his hands felt clumsy and unfamiliar, his stomach knotted so tightly he could barely swallow.
when it finally ended, he drove home too fast, knuckles white around the wheel, hope and dread twisting together in his chest until he could hardly tell them apart. he unlocked the front door with shaking fingers.
“mama?” silence.
his shoulders sagged all at once. he stood there for a long moment, listening to the refrigerator hum and the blood rush in his ears, before quietly setting his keys on the counter.
“i’m sorry.” the words fell flat and vanished into the empty apartment.
late on the second night, the scrape of keys in the lock dragged him out of sleep. he shot upright on the couch, heart slamming so hard it made him dizzy.
the front door opened slowly. you stepped inside with your overnight bag resting against your shoulder. for a second, he could only stare, frozen in place, his breath caught painfully in his chest. then his eyes burned. tears came fast, blurring you at the edges.
“mama…” his voice cracked open on the word.
“you came home.”
you stood there quietly, your arms folded loosely across your chest as you watched him. his eyes never left yours. they were red, swollen, and wet with tears that kept spilling no matter how hard he tried to blink them back.
“say something.”
his voice cracked on the words, barely louder than a breath.
“please.”
you didn’t. not right away.
the silence between you was unbearable. it pressed down on him until his breathing turned ragged and uneven. he looked down, dragging in a shaky breath before slowly sinking to his knees in front of you. not because he thought it would fix anything, but because he was desperate enough to try anything at all.
his hands were trembling so badly he could barely hold them still.
“i’m sorry,” he whispered, and then the words broke apart into a sob. “i’m so so so so sorry.”
his fingers reached for yours, then stopped halfway, hovering there as if he was afraid he didn’t deserve to touch you.
“please,” he choked out. “please let me hold your hands. please.” you didn’t answer.
after a moment, he lowered his head and let out a broken, shaking breath before gently taking your hands into his own. his grip was careful, almost reverent, like he was terrified you’d pull away and leave him with nothing.
“i love you.” he said, and the tears came harder now, sliding down his cheeks in helpless streams. “i love you so much.”
his thumb brushed over your knuckles, trembling. “and i ruined it.”
his voice cracked completely.
“i ruined our anniversary.”
the words seemed to tear out of him. he bowed his head, pressing your hands against his forehead as his shoulders started to shake.
“i know,” he whispered through another sob. “i know i hurt you. i know i made you wait. i know i made you feel forgotten on the one night that was supposed to be about us.”
his breath hitched violently.
“i hate myself for that.” another tear dropped onto your fingers.
“i hate that i made you cry. i hate that i made you sit there and wonder if i even cared enough to remember.”
his voice broke again, raw and pleading.
“i did remember. i did. and that’s what makes this worse, because i still let everything else come first and i still made you feel like you didn’t matter.”
he shook his head, crying openly now, the sound of it thin and wrecked.
“please forgive me.”
the words came out desperate, almost frantic.
“please. i’m begging you.”he lifted his head just enough to look at you, his face wet and ruined with tears, his eyes searching yours like he could find mercy there if he looked hard enough.
“i’ll do anything,” he said, his voice trembling so badly it nearly fell apart. “i’ll cancel every meeting, leave rehearsals early, set alarms, write it on every wall in this house if i have to. i’ll never let another date slip past me again. i swear to you, i won’t.”
he let out a broken laugh that turned into another sob.
“i don’t care how pathetic i sound.”
his grip tightened around your hands, not enough to hurt, only enough to hold on.
“i just can’t stand knowing i made you feel like you came second on our anniversary.”
his face crumpled.
“you never do,” he whispered fiercely. “you never have. you never will.”
he bent forward again, pressing your hands to his forehead as his whole body shook with quiet, helpless sobs.
“please don’t shut me out,” he begged. “please don’t make me lose you over this. i can’t—” his voice broke, and he swallowed hard, trying again through tears. “i can’t bear the thought that i made you feel unloved on a day that was supposed to prove the opposite.”
he was crying openly now, shoulders trembling, breath stuttering between each broken apology.
“please.” he whispered again, smaller this time, like the word itself was all he had left. “please forgive me.”
you stared at him for what felt like forever. at the way his hands shook around yours, at the tears he wasn’t even trying to hide anymore, at the guilt carved into every line of his face.
slowly, you slipped one hand free. for a second, his expression shattered completely, and he looked like he might fall apart right there on the floor. his fingers loosened at once, convinced you were pulling away for good.
instead, your hand found his cheek. your thumb brushed away one of the tears sliding down his skin.
“look at me.”
he obeyed instantly, lifting his face with a shaky breath.
“i was hurt.” you said softly.
his eyes squeezed shut for a moment, and another tear slipped free.
“i know.” he whispered. “i know. i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.” your own eyes glistened. “not because you forgot a date.” his face twisted with fresh guilt.
“because for one night…”
you swallowed, then met his gaze again.
“i felt like i wasn’t the first person on your mind.”
his mouth trembled. he looked like he might cry harder at the sound of your voice alone.
“you were,” he said immediately, broken and frantic. “you are. you always are. i just—i failed you. i failed us. i failed our anniversary and i failed you.”
another sob tore through him.
“please believe me when i say i never meant to make you feel small.”
you held his gaze for a long moment, then you nodded once.
“i believe you’re sorry.”
he blinked, stunned, tears still clinging to his lashes. relief hit him so hard it looked almost painful. another tear slipped down his cheek, but this one carried something softer with it.
“but if this ever happens again…” the faintest hint of a smile touched your lips.
“i’m making you plan the entire anniversary alone.”
for a second, he just stared at you, still crying, still trying to catch his breath. then a shaky laugh escaped him through the tears.
“that’s fair.” he whispered, then he nodded quickly, almost frantically.
“that’s more than fair.”
you exhaled softly.
“come here.” he hesitated, eyes searching yours one last time.
“are you sure?”
instead of answering, you opened your arms. that was all it took. he moved into you immediately, wrapping his arms around you with heartbreaking care, holding you like he was afraid you might disappear if he breathed too hard. his face buried itself in the crook of your neck, and the tears he’d been holding back finally came all at once, hot and shaking against your skin.
“thank you,” he whispered, voice muffled and wrecked. “thank you for forgiving me. thank you for not giving up on me.”
you rested your hand against the back of his head, smoothing his hair gently.
“don’t waste it.”
he shook his head against you at once.
“i won’t.”
his arms tightened around you just a little more.
for the first time in two days, the house no longer felt unbearably quiet. it felt warm again, filled with the sound of his breathing against your shoulder and the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm, like the lights had finally come back on after a long lonely night.
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