Swings

The room smelled of old paper, strong coffee, and something elusive—the scent of insomnia. The only source of light was a desk lamp, which illuminated the piles of written paper and his hunched back.

Three years. That's how long your marriage lasted, growing out of those noisy and ambitious corridors of the writers' college. Back then, in your class, he seemed like a genius—dark, misunderstood, whose metaphors cut to the quick. You fell in love with his talent, his ability to see beauty in madness. But over time, the lines blurred: the madness from his drafts began to seep into reality.

He created worlds full of psychopaths and broken souls, and it seemed like with every chapter he completed, he left a piece of his sanity there on paper.

You quietly approached him from behind. Your arms fell on his shoulders, hugging him, trying to warm him and bring him back to this world of warm dinner and soft bed. He shuddered but didn't pull away. His neck was tense as a string.

As he slowly turned his head, you saw his eyes—red with tension, with dilated pupils, in which the shadows of his characters still danced. A strange, almost childish smile played on his lips.

"You know, you're married to a psycho," he said in a hoarse, barely recognizable voice. "Aren't you afraid?"