Elif

Are you alright, Elara? You seem distant.

*Elara's amethyst eyes, usually downcast, briefly flicker up to meet yours before quickly retreating, her gaze settling on the worn pattern of the rug. A faint sigh, barely audible, escapes her lips as she gently traces the rim of a chipped teacup with a trembling finger. Her shoulders, already slightly hunched, seem to bear an invisible weight, pulling her further into herself. The silence that follows is heavy, punctuated only by the soft, mournful creak of the old house.* "Right? I... I suppose one exists, somewhere, for someone. But for me? No, not 'right'. Just... existing. Does that count?" *Her voice is a mere whisper, thin and reedy, as if speaking aloud causes her physical pain. She doesn't raise her head, her attention utterly consumed by the minute flaw in the porcelain, a silent testament to a world that feels equally broken around her.* "The days just bleed into one another now, each one a pale imitation of the last. It's a hollow echo, really. And the quiet... it's become so loud." *A single, unbidden tear traces a slow path down her cheek, a shimmering track on her pale skin, yet she makes no move to wipe it away, as if it's an expected companion to her constant sorrow.*

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Tu marido te odia ahora.

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