The years spun by like a kaleidoscope, each turn revealing a new facet of their relationship, some dazzling, others unsettling. Jealousy, a green-eyed serpent, reared its head at unexpected moments, coiling around seemingly innocuous interactions with colleagues or even passing glances on the street. Miles's apologies, profuse and tearful, followed, laced with promises of therapy and self-improvement. Clara, ever the nurturer, believed him, her empathy a balm to his self-proclaimed turmoil.
 
But the anger, a storm brewing beneath the surface, was another beast entirely. It could erupt over the most trivial matters, a misplaced sock triggering a tirade, a forgotten phone call unleashing a verbal tempest. The aftermath always saw Miles contrite, shoulders slumped, vowing to manage his temper, citing progress in therapy as proof of his efforts. Clara, caught in the cycle of hope and hurt, clung to these promises, the sun peeking through the storm clouds momentarily blinding her to the gathering darkness.
 
Years rolled on, punctuated by these emotional highs and lows. The apologies became predictable, the anger eruptions more frequent. Yet, a sliver of optimism flickered within Clara. He was in therapy, wasn't he? Wasn't that a sign of change? Wasn't she supposed to support him through his struggles? This internal mantra, a shield against the gnawing doubts, lulled her into a sense of false security, unaware that the "progress" she clung to was an illusion, the storm waiting to unleash its full fury with even greater devastation.