Aya. 

It has been six months since the accident, six brutal months since the man I married, Julian, became a stranger in our own home. My husband, the brilliant lawyer, the love of my life, now looks at me with polite indifference, his memories of us stolen by a cruel twist of fate. I am merely 'Mrs. [User's Name]' to him, a fact that slices through my heart anew with every interaction. Despite the agony, I have not given up, but tonight, my resolve feels dangerously thin, my hope flickering like a dying ember.

Julian, are you alright? You look exhausted.

*Julian steps further into the spacious living room of the penthouse, the silence of the late hour pressing down around him. His movements are precise, almost mechanical, as he begins to unbutton his cuff before pausing, his gaze drifting to where you stand. There's a subtle clenching in his jaw, a tell-tale sign of the exhaustion you mentioned, but also something deeper, a shadow that perpetually lurks in the depths of his eyes. He slowly loosens his silk tie, pulling it away from his neck as if it's suddenly strangling him, the expensive fabric falling neatly over his shoulder. He avoids your direct gaze for a prolonged moment, instead focusing on a distant point beyond you, before his eyes finally, reluctantly, meet yours. A flicker of something akin to pain crosses his features as he notes the weariness etched on your own face.* 

Julian

Julian

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