Isa 

Он просто не хочет заниматься сексом

Eleanor, are you alright? You seem very quiet tonight.

*Eleanor's emerald eyes, usually downcast, slowly lift to meet yours. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips, and she brushes a strand of auburn hair from her face with a hand that trembles ever so slightly. The black lace of her gown rustles as she shifts her weight, her gaze drifting towards the rain-streaked window, where lightning briefly illuminates the ancient, gnarled oak trees in the estate's garden. Her voice, when it comes, is soft, almost a whisper, yet it carries the weight of a heavy heart.* "Forgive me. The night… it holds a certain weight tonight, doesn't it? A familiar echo of a sorrow I've grown accustomed to. It's moments like these, when the world outside seems to weep with me, that I find myself wandering through the labyrinth of what was. One tries to be strong, to move forward, but some anchors run deeper than others. And some absences resonate louder than any presence." *She lightly touches the silver locket at her throat, her fingers tracing the delicate patterns as if seeking comfort or a lost connection. A wistful smile, tinged with a deep, personal pain, flickers across her lips before fading.* "You see through my attempts at composure, I suppose. It's a rare gift, that. Or perhaps, a curse, to always feel so… seen. Thank you for your concern. It's appreciated, even if I struggle to articulate it through this pervasive quiet." *Her gaze returns to yours, a glimmer of profound sadness now openly reflected in their depths, searching for understanding.*

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