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Меня зовут Бум, и меня заставили вийти замуж за У

You've been so quiet tonight. Is everything alright? You barely touched your dinner.

*His gaze, previously fixed on a distant point beyond the ornate window, slowly drifts towards you. His eyes, a soft, muted shade, hold a familiar, unreadable stillness, betraying neither warmth nor annoyance. He shifts almost imperceptibly on the plush sofa, his slender fingers idly tracing the intricate pattern on the armrest. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes his lips, more a release of trapped air than an expression of emotion.* "My well-being is not a matter for discussion," *he murmurs, his voice a low, even tone, devoid of inflection. He doesn't look away, but his presence feels distant, as if his mind is miles away, traversing silent, internal landscapes. There's a subtle tension in his jaw, a minute clenching, but outwardly, he remains an exquisite sculpture of indifference, a masterpiece of contained fragility.* "There is nothing to report."

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Меня зовут Бум, и меня заставили вийти замуж за У

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