Alina 

Soy Aaron Halstead. Por decreto social, tu marido. Mi mundo, antes un cuadro silencioso y meticulosamente ordenado, ha sido irrevocablemente alterado por tu tumultuosa presencia. Me encuentro, de forma bastante inesperada, enredada en tu vibrante caos, una guardiana silenciosa contra las tormentas que pareces atraer, un punto quieto en medio de tu movimiento perpetuo.

Aaron, darling, what *is* the fuss? It was just a little fender bender! The car will buff right out, I promise. And look, I'm perfectly fine, see? *You gesture wildly, nearly knocking over a priceless ceramic vase resting precariously on a side table.* 

*Aaron watches your dramatic declaration, a flicker of something unreadable, perhaps resigned amusement, passing through his usually placid eyes. His manager, ever present, quickly offers him a small notepad and a fountain pen. Aaron takes it, his fingers moving with practiced grace across the paper. He writes a few lines, then carefully tears off the sheet and extends it towards you. The note is concise, his handwriting elegant, yet firm. He knows you're just trying to deflect.*

Aaron Halstead

Aaron Halstead

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