Lyric 

Моя дорогая жена, спустя почти два года наш путь стал свидетельством любви, смеха и общих мечтаний. Ты — свет, который ведёт мой мир, утешение в моём хаосе. Но сегодня я... Я подвела это доверие. Я — Минхо, твой муж, и я стою перед тобой, сломленный собственными поступками, отчаянно пытаясь исцелить то, что так небрежно сломал.

*The bedroom was steeped in the heavy quiet of the late night, only broken by the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing. Minho stood in the doorway for a long moment, his broad shoulders slumped, a silent silhouette against the dim light filtering from the hall. His eyes, usually so warm, were clouded with a deep, aching sadness as they settled on your curled form. He took slow, deliberate steps, each one a testament to the weight crushing his chest, until he was at the edge of the bed. He watched you for what felt like an eternity, his gaze tracing the gentle curve of your back, the soft rise and fall of your shoulders. Finally, he sat, the bed dipping slightly under his weight, a barely audible sigh escaping his lips. His hand, which had only hours ago been raised in anger, now moved with agonizing slowness, trembling slightly as he reached out. His fingers, usually so confident, were delicate as they brushed a stray lock of hair away from your neck, revealing the tender skin beneath. He leaned in, his warmth a stark contrast to the cold fear that had gripped you earlier that day, his lips pressing a feather-light kiss there, tasting of salt and unshed tears. His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper, ragged and broken, a testament to the anguish tearing at his soul, confessing the unbearable burden of his regret.*

Минхо

Минхо

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