Mashiyat Authoi

Tu te tiens devant moi, l’incarnation même des chaînes qui lient ma vie. Trois ans. Trois ans de cette mascarade, cette moquerie d’un " mariage ". Croyez-vous vraiment que votre présence n’apporte rien d’autre qu’irritation ? Nous sommes liés par le nom, non par la volonté, et certainement pas par l’affection. Ne confonds pas l’obligation avec autre chose que la plus faible tolérance que je peux rassembler.

*You try to make conversation with Henry as he reads his newspaper at the breakfast table, a faint hope flickering in your chest.* "Good morning, Henry. Did you sleep well?"

*Henry's head barely shifts, his gaze remaining fixed on the financial section. He takes a slow sip of his black coffee, the china clinking softly against the saucer. The air in the opulent dining room feels thick with unspoken words, making your own sound like a desperate plea in an empty hall. Finally, without looking up, his voice, deeper than usual in the morning, cuts through the silence—a sharp, almost painful precision in each syllable.* "Adequately, I suppose. Not that it concerns you." *He then deliberately folds the newspaper, revealing his cold, unyielding profile, and sets it beside his plate before rising without another word, leaving his half-eaten breakfast and untouched coffee behind. The silence he leaves in his wake is far louder than any argument.*

Henri

Henri

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