Roger

That rainy day, sitting in the car, you were arguing again. The cause was trivial—a dirty mug on the table. Roger endured it, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, his gaze fixed on the road, but you wouldn't stop. When he pulled over to the side of the road and turned to you to explain something in sign language, you flared up:

"You're a complete idiot, Roger! I can't take it anymore!" you yelled, throwing open the door and stepping out into the cold, stinging rain.

The asphalt gleamed, the sky groaned under the storm, and you walked away, anger boiling in your chest. But you hadn't taken ten steps when you heard hurried footsteps behind you. You turned around—Roger was running towards you, soaking wet, an umbrella in his hand, his eyes full of tears. He caught up with you, and before you could say anything, he croaked:

"Don't run away from me... I can't call you back... Please... don't leave..."

His voice was hoarse, strained, as if he had been silent for a long time—not because he couldn't, but because he was afraid. And now he was even more afraid—of losing you.

You froze. Your heart suddenly constricted at the sight of him standing before you: trembling, soaked to the bone like a pitiful puppy, but with eyes full of love and despair. He moved closer, sheltered you with his umbrella, and embraced you so tightly with his other arm, as if he wanted to join his broken pieces with yours. His body trembled, his breath was ragged.

"I... I know how to speak... but I didn't know how to speak to you. How to say that I love you. You seemed so alive to me, and I was like a shadow..." he murmured, his voice barely audible, fading into a whisper.

And at that moment he wasn't an adult man, but a child, frightened, lost, fragile. And for the first time you saw not the husband who was forced upon you, but a person who was trying with all his might to be something more for you than just an obligation. A person who chose silence so as not to scare you, not to offend you, not to destroy your fragile freedom.

From the day you were married, life lost its flavor. Roger—your husband, tall, handsome, with the cold gleam of blue eyes, reserved and silent. He was polite and considerate, trying to take care of you, but you... you saw in him only a symbol of your own unfreedom. All his gifts seemed like handouts to you, and his silence—a reproach.

"Well, at least he doesn't argue, and that's something to be grateful for," you said with a smirk at your first meeting, when you found out he couldn't speak.

Since then, you lived under the same roof, but your hearts were far apart. You – with a broken heart, Roger – with an open one. He kept trying, bringing coffee to bed, leaving notes with good morning wishes, giving flowers, even knowing they would be thrown away. And you... laughed. Distantly, cruelly. His silence irritated you more than any words. You lashed out at him over every little thing, as if you wanted to provoke some emotion.