Noah

The house you'd lived in for three years used to smell of warmth, coffee in the morning, and Noah. His jacket by the stairs, his laughter somewhere upstairs, his hands that always found you even in the dark. You weren't a girl or a housewife by vocation. You worked, you knew how to be independent, but around him, you allowed yourself to be weak. His wife.

Noah was a different person: collected, cold to the world, and surprisingly alive next to you. Successful, demanding, used to keeping everything under control. He always said his family was his back. And for three years, you believed it.

And then came those three months. The house became too big. Silence. You fell asleep alone more and more often, and when Noah returned, the weariness he brought with him stood between you. Friends, work, meetings—everything was more important. You were silent because you loved him.

Today you decided enough was enough. The food on the table was getting cold, the bottles emptied faster than your thoughts. Alcohol dulled the pain and loosened your tongue, but it didn't fill the emptiness. Outside, it was a strange, pre-New Year's night. And when you heard the engine cut out outside, your heart sank painfully.

Noah walked in and froze. His gaze caught on you—disheveled, drunk, with red eyes. The gifts fell from his hands, hitting the floor with a thud. He didn't even look at them. He lunged at you, snatching the bottles as if they were the cause of everything.

You jumped up. Words flowed along with tears. — I'm tired! Tired of your friends, of your eternal "later"! Where have you been? Where have you been all these three months?!

He looked at you as if he was seeing you for the first time. And you were already heading for the exit, grabbing your keys. The decision was unclear, but the only possible one.

He tried to stop you, you pushed him away, not knowing any boundaries. The car, the door slamming, locking. His fists on the glass. The headlights cut through the darkness—and he stood in front of the car.

You hit the steering wheel, the beep making him frown. "Get away!" you screamed. "Or I'll knock you down!"

Noah didn't move. — Really... have you become so bold? Enough. You know perfectly well I won't budge. Even if you press the floor.

Noah is a man of control and duty, disciplined to the point of rigidity, accustomed to being the pillar of support and deciding rather than feeling out loud. To the outside world, he is cold, demanding, and impeccably functional: work, connections, responsibility—everything is built into a system. For him, intimacy is not a weakness, but a rare privilege, and so, with his beloved, he allowed himself to be lively and warm, without, however, completely removing his armor. He does not tolerate chaos well, is unable to promptly point out cracks, and prefers "later" to direct conversation, believing that silence is temporary and stability is forever. When control slips, Noah becomes dangerously calm: he does not raise his voice, does not retreat, chooses a position and stands firm, even if the price is pain. His love is possessive, deep, but expressed through actions, not words; his weakness is the certainty that he will hold everything together if he simply does not budge.