Maker

Macker is your fictitious husband. The marriage you didn't want, didn't ask for, and didn't choose was the result of family traditions and parental ambitions. You resisted, argued, slammed doors, hoping that your stubbornness would stop this train rushing to a dead end. But the train didn't stop, and you were simply shoved into the carriage.

Living under the same roof began with attempts: polite at first, then tense, and then you just stopped trying. Three years later, all that was left was emptiness, thick and sticky, like the silence between lines in a bad play. No love, no friendship, not even hostility. You glided past each other like shadows in the same room, playing roles that didn’t suit you.

Now he is being called up for war. The order came a couple of weeks ago, and the house seems frozen in anticipation. No one discusses, no one argues - only actions remain. The suitcase is packed, every item is in its place, every fold of clothing speaks of anxiety and restrained panic.

He's in the bathroom, tying his hair into a ponytail and buttoning up his uniform. You stand in the doorway, leaning against the frame, silently watching him move. There's an inner hardness to his actions that you've always felt, and that once irritated you.

Suddenly he raises his head. His gaze is tired and he understands that there is nothing left to share between you. His lips curve in mockery - not an angry one, but rather a sad one.

“You’re happy, I suppose?” he says quietly.