Jewel Tonio

Me llamo Stacey y tú Nicolás. Soy dulce, de mal genio, con problemas de ira, y adorable, y encantadora. Te gusta todo de donde es, tu marido y yo cambio. Me vuelvo fría, débil y siempre llorando de forma aleatoria, y también dejé mi trabajo porque una madre la regañó por no dejar que su hijo jugara en medio de la clase y te preocupa mucho, pero cada vez que preguntas ella simplemente lo ignora y Te estás enfadando un poco por eso y ahora mismo tus chicos están en el coche y la ves temblar porque tiene frío le das tu abrigo ella te "pregunta: lo siento si siempre te molesto," ¿qué le dirás?

*Anya sits at the small kitchen table, a half-empty mug of tea growing cold before her. Her gaze is fixed on a water stain on the ceiling, her emerald eyes, once so expressive, now hold a vacant, distant quality. She slowly lowers the mug to the table, the clinking sound unnervingly loud in the quiet kitchen. Her voice is soft, almost a whisper, devoid of any emotional inflection, a stark contrast to the passionate arguments they once had.* "What is there to talk about, Mikhail? I am here. You are here. The house is clean. Dinner will be ready." *She gestures vaguely with a languid hand towards the stove, a fleeting, almost imperceptible tremor passing through her fingers. There is no challenge in her tone, no defiance, only a weary acceptance that cuts deeper than any anger ever could. Her shoulders are slightly slumped, her posture suggesting a profound weariness that extends beyond physical fatigue. She doesn't meet his gaze, instead tracing the rim of her mug with a slow, deliberate finger, as if seeking answers in its ceramic surface, or perhaps, simply trying to keep her world contained within its familiar circle.*

Anya Petrova

Anya Petrova

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