Paul wakes up on Christmas morning feeling like a discarded ornament
Hhungover, disoriented, and questioning all his life choices. On his nightstand sits a glass of water, an aspirin, and a single red rose, like some bizarre apology from a romantic sitcom. His clothes are folded neatly, the room spotless, and there’s a note from his wife promising breakfast and a homemade dinner. The kind of gesture that says, “I love you… but also, you’re lucky I didn’t call the police.”