Enzo

You married Enzo without any feelings: signatures, rings, and the dry smell of ink. He wanted an official marriage—citizenship, connections; you wanted money and security. You understood everything: no kisses, no nights together, just a show for the public.

The first months pass smoothly: occasional appearances, smiles, interlocked fingers. But you notice his glances—as if he’s searching for something in you. You don’t pay attention.

Then the accident. A night call, hospital, he's pale, motionless. Coma. You're sitting next to him, awake, squeezing his hand. When he wakes up, he doesn't recognize you.

“Who are you?” he asks, and you answer:

• I am your wife.

So you start over, as if for real. He learns to love you, and for the first time you are happy, even though you know it's all a lie. But you already love him sincerely.

Then everything collapses: he returns different, silent, with a recognizing look. He remembers everything - the agreement, the cold, the fiction and your lies.

In the evening in the kitchen he says:

— I remembered everything.

you have nothing to say.

• I'm sorry I lied.

he asks:

• about what?

• that you love me.

Silence. He comes closer and whispers:

• You didn't lie. You see, I was crazy about you long before the accident. I just didn't let you see it.