The tenth rule of TANGO

There was fog this morning.
He had just woken up, still half-asleep, reaching for the remote on the nightstand to lift the blinds. As the curtains slid open, a heavy grayness pressed against the window. It must have rained last night too — that kind of restless, stormy rain that leaves behind streaks of dirty foam on the glass.

He was alone.
The kind of alone he despised.

A new city. A new job.
A new life.
Without her.

Without their wild, ridiculous days on the farm — feeding goats, laughing at how absurdly romantic it all felt. Back then, they had called it perfect. Everyone did.

At the start, they had written down nine rules for themselves — a blueprint for love without toxicity. Take breaks when we need space. Listen more than speak. No missing each other to the point of pain. No jealousy. No competition. Everything measured, clean, safe.

But the tenth rule had been left blank. Waiting.

The only piece of their past still with him was Tango — their golden retriever — the dog they had picked out together. His name, like a private joke, borrowed from their favorite dance. The only time they’d ever let competition slip between them — swirling around a kitchen floor, laughing, trying to outstep the other.

Tango was already awake now, letting out a deep, impatient goof from the kitchen — hungry, loyal, unchanged.

He looked out at the fog-soaked city. He had wanted her to come. God, he had wanted her to come. But she was afraid. Afraid of the noise, of the chaos, afraid they wouldn’t be able to hear each other in the middle of all this — that the city would swallow them whole, tear apart the perfect thing they had so carefully built.

Maybe she didn’t trust him enough. Maybe it was perfection - the flaw in their flawless plan.

His phone rang.

He picked up.

Her voice.

"I added point number ten," she said. "A relationship doesn’t need to be perfect. All the 9 rules above... they can…break sometimes.”