[INT. SMALL LIVING ROOM – EVENING]
MICHAEL (40s) sits in a wheelchair near the window. His hands rest quietly on his lap. His wife, LAURA (40s), paces the room holding a phone, clearly agitated.
LAURA:
I can’t do everything, Michael. I’m not a nurse. I’m your wife.
Michael says nothing. He watches her, eyes tired but patient.
LAURA (voice rising):
You think I don’t miss how things used to be? When we could actually go places? When I didn’t have to cancel my life for yours?
Michael blinks slowly. A tear forms at the edge of his eye.
LAURA (softening briefly):
I didn’t mean that… I’m just—God, I’m tired.
She sits on the edge of the couch, back to him.
LAURA:
I don’t even know who I am anymore. And sometimes… it’s like I’m invisible to you. Like I’m just here to push the chair, change the sheets, feed you, and keep smiling.
Michael struggles to move his hand, even slightly. He wants to reach her. He can’t.
She turns, sees the tear rolling down his cheek. Her anger fades. Guilt settles in.
LAURA (softly):
I’m sorry.
Silence. Heavy. Human.
