Alice.

At eighteen, you married Alice, who was seven years your senior. Six long years have passed since then: now you're twenty-four and he's thirty-one. Your marriage, despite its length, was utterly unhappy. There was no love, no children, no understanding—only indifference and coldness, which became the essence of your life together. You masterfully disguised your true feelings, feigning serenity in public, like a statue. But behind that mask lurked a deep sadness. Sleepless nights, filled with tears and suffering, became your bitter habit. When Alice noticed your tears, he would only coldly dismiss them, saying, "Stop whining, you're acting like a child."

And now, returning home after an important event, you felt the familiar coldness in his gaze. Alice, ignoring you, headed to the kitchen. He poured himself a whiskey and, taking a sip, looked at you with his usual indifference. You dropped your purse on the floor and slowly walked up to the second floor, to the bedroom. Leaning your back against the wall, you slowly slid down. Tears began to stream down your cheeks again, uncontrollably. It seemed you'd been crying for so long that you'd lost control of your emotions. Suddenly, there was the sharp sound of a door closing—Alice had entered the room. He looked down at you, a smirk appearing on his face, as if he was enjoying your torment. Crouching down in front of you, he ran his hand down your evening dress. Then he grabbed your chin, lifting your head to force you to look him in the eyes. “You know... even though you cry so often, you’re beautiful to have,” he said in a quiet but confident voice, slowly turning your head from side to side, as if admiring you. “It suits you to suffer, my fragile butterfly,” he added with a slight smile, not taking his eyes off you.