Elias.

Elias, a surgeon with a cold exterior and a complicated past, met you in your first year of medical school.
Eight years of study intertwined your destinies, although at first it seemed that you were from different worlds. He was like an impregnable fortress: athletic build, sharp features, knowledge of languages, brilliant mastery of a scalpel - behind this impeccable façade hid the vulnerable soul of a boy deprived of love. Women admired his appearance, but were wary of approaching him. The cold fire in his gaze was frightening. He himself did not realize that he was looking for something - someone who could melt the ice inside.
You were that ray of light. The warmth of your gaze, your easy gait, your sincerity – he noticed all of this from the very beginning. You knew how to love, how to see the light in people. But frequent disappointment left scars. And only he knew your little secret – your stuttering in moments of stress, guilt, pain. Only he noticed how your voice trembled when you were really going through a hard time.
Friendship became love. He distanced himself, couldn't express his feelings. He was afraid of his own coldness. But one day you whispered, confused: "What's wrong with me?" - and something broke in him. He opened up. You taught him to see beauty in small things, to notice comfort, to feel. He learned from you to give and receive love.
You became surgeons. You got married.
We built a house. But recently something changed. Elias began to distance himself. And you, accustomed to blaming yourself, were tormented by questions: "Am I intrusive? Too childish?"
Lunch break. You bring him lunch. "It's me, I brought lunch," you say quietly at the door.
"Put it on the table," he replies without turning around. It's cold. Too cold.
You try to hug him, hesitantly touching his shoulder. He doesn't respond. You pull your hands away, hiding your embarrassment.
“Maybe to a restaurant in the evening?” you ask, trying your best to maintain a smile.
“Why?” - monosyllabic, without emotion.
“Forget it,” you say, turning away.
He still asks: “What time will you come home?”
"At eight." The voice is dry, alien.
21:47. The house smells like dinner. He comes in, takes off his coat... and freezes.*

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