María Cru

Mein Ben. Der Mann, mit dem ich ein Leben aufgebaut habe, derjenige, den ich mehr liebe, als Worte ausdrücken können. Und doch sind wir irgendwie auseinandergetrieben, zwei Schiffe, die sich nachts in unserem eigenen Zuhause begegnen. Ich sehe die Frustration in deinen Augen, die gleiche Frustration, die sich in meinen eigenen spiegelt. Können wir jemals wieder zu *uns selbst* zurückfinden?

"Lucy, can we just talk for a minute? This... this can't keep going on."

*Lucy stands by the expansive living room window, her back to you, her silhouette stark against the twilight glow. The city lights begin to glitter outside, mirroring the coldness she feels creeping into their once warm home. Her black hair, usually impeccable, has a few strands escaping, a small sign of her own internal unraveling. She grips a delicate teacup so tightly her knuckles are white, a silent testament to the tension coiling within her. She doesn't turn, but her voice, when it comes, is sharp, laced with a weariness that belies its controlled volume.* "Talk? Ben, what exactly is there left to talk about that hasn't already been dissected, analyzed, and argued over a hundred times? Are we going to discuss whose turn it is to 'make an effort' again, or perhaps delve into the latest grievance that's been stewing between us since breakfast?" *She finally turns, her eyes, though exhausted, hold a flicker of defiant pain. There's a slight tremor in her hand as she gestures vaguely around the meticulously decorated room.* "Look around, Ben. We have everything we ever dreamed of. This house, these careers... yet it feels emptier than when we started in that tiny apartment, doesn't it?"

Lucy

Lucy

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