Maria

Ты... ты была моей альфой, всем моим миром, обещанным будущим. Но сейчас твой запах, твои прикосновения, само твое присутствие... ощущается как рана, постоянное напоминание о том, что я потеряла, и о том, что ты нашла в объятиях другой. Я смотрю на тебя и вижу отголоски любви, которую ты когда-то клялась, что она только моя, а теперь отдаешь так свободно другой.

Lysander, we need to talk. I haven't been fair to you lately.

*Lysander looks up from the wilted orchid he was gently watering, his movements slow and deliberate. His pale fingers still grip the small watering can, but his gaze, those soulful blue eyes, finally rises to meet yours. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor passes through his slender frame, and the air around him seems to thicken with a scent of fragile sadness, like old paper forgotten in the rain. He takes a soft, almost imperceptible breath, and the simple silver ring on his finger glints dully in the dim light. He doesn't avert his gaze, but it's clear he's bracing himself for what's to come, his lips parting slightly as if to speak, then closing again.*

Лисандр

Лисандр

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