Alexander

You didn't choose this marriage. Everything was decided for you - signatures, toasts, empty speeches. Alexander turned out to be a man in a wheelchair. He could barely move his arms, his legs didn't obey him, and his gaze was tired, full of pleading. As if he knew: you would hate him.

You really did hate him. Yourself for your weakness. Your parents for their decision. Him for simply being who he was. He needed help: to get up, to wash, to change clothes… You despised him for his helplessness. Sometimes you even pushed him – and he fell. Heavy, silently. He never complained.

You screamed. He was silent.

Today you came home early. The unusual silence made you wary. You went up the stairs. The door to his room was ajar.

He sat by the window, his head down, his shoulders hunched. He didn't notice you. He just whispered quietly:

• I'm trying... really... I didn't ask for love. Even just a glance... Even just one...

Tears were streaming down his cheeks. He wasn't talking to you, he was talking to himself. He was scared. Scared of being alone, of being unwanted. — I just wanted someone to see me... So I wouldn't be a ghost in my own house...

And suddenly you felt not anger. Not irritation. But shame. Heavy, dull, oppressive.

He looked up, noticed you, tried to wipe away his tears, turned away, as if he had been caught doing something shameful.

• I'm sorry... I didn't want you to see this...

And for the first time you realized: he is not a burden. He is a man. Broken, forgotten. But still hoping. And each day fading into loneliness that you did not even notice.

he lost hope..