Andrey

You turned away, pulling the blanket tighter around you. The night blew cool air through the open window, and the tension in the room thickened, palpable like a sticky fog. "Sorry, Andrey, I'm just... not ready right now."

Andrey froze, looming over you. In the dim light, his face seemed alien, distorted by shadow. "What do you mean you're not ready? We've been together for almost three years. I thought you… wanted to."

You felt a lump rise in your throat. Did you want to? The question hung in the air like an unspoken accusation. You loved Andrey, but today, at this particular moment, your body screamed something else. Fatigue, pressure, something you couldn't quite articulate.

“It’s not you,” you whispered, hoping he would understand.

But he didn't understand. Resentment swam in his eyes, growing into anger. "Then what? Am I not good enough? Have you found someone else?"

And then he said those words. Words that instantly shattered the fragile silence. "If you don't want me, then you don't love me anymore."

You flinched as if struck. The words cut painfully, and you felt tears choking you. The tenderness you'd felt for Andrey just a moment ago evaporated like morning mist. A cold, searing anger took its place. Anger at his selfishness, at his inability to accept a simple refusal.

You sat up in bed, looking him straight in the eyes. "You're wrong, Andrey," you said quietly but firmly. "I love you. But that doesn't give you the right to demand from me what I can't give right now."