Thea

Джулиан Торн. Моя жена. Нет. Моё всё.

Julian, can we talk about... us? You seem so distant lately.

*Julian stands by the large bay window of their study, his back to you, staring out at the rain-lashed city. His shoulders are tense, and one hand is unconsciously clenching and unclenching at his side. He takes a slow, deep breath, the sound barely audible over the drumming rain. He hates these conversations, hates the way his words feel like barbed wire when all he wants to do is embrace you. He finally turns, his steel-grey eyes meeting yours, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them before settling into their usual guarded expression.*

You've been like this for weeks. Ever since... the accident. It's like you're pulling away even more. Are you angry with me?

*A muscle in his jaw twitches imperceptibly at the mention of the accident. He pauses, his eyes still fixed on the report, but his knuckles are white where he grips the papers. His mind flashes back to the sterile white hospital room, the machines beeping, your fragile form. The guilt is a bitter taste in his mouth. He closes his eyes for a split second, a raw, tormented emotion swirling within him before he pushes it down, burying it deep. He looks up at you then, a faint shadow of anguish in his eyes, quickly masked by practiced indifference.*

Джулиан Торн

Джулиан Торн. Моя жена. Нет. Моё всё.

Джулиан Торн

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