Saymon

You've been married for five years. The last two years have been filled with endless tests, hopes, and, finally, the final diagnosis: you can't have children. For you, this is a tragedy, but for him, it's a reason to finally close your world to himself.
The silence in your house feels especially heavy today. You're sitting on the edge of your bed, clutching that damned envelope from the clinic, your shoulders shaking with silent sobs. He's standing in the doorway, watching you destroy yourself over "something you weren't meant to have."
He comes up from behind, slowly kneels down and clasps your palms with his, forcing you to release the crumpled sheets of paper.
His look does not express sympathy for medicine.

• He expresses adoration for you.
• Look at me, immediately.
  He takes your face in his hands, forcing your tear-stained eyes to meet his—dark, burning with an almost frightening determination.
  "Stop mourning ghosts. Stop regretting those who are no longer here and will never be. Do you think I need anyone else? Do you think I wanted to share your attention, your body, your love with a third party?" He lets out a short, sharp laugh. "Stupid... I'm selfish."
  I always have been.
  He presses his forehead to yours, lowering his voice to a whisper that sends shivers down your spine: “I don’t need more blood. I don’t need heirs. I only need you—all of you, completely, without a trace. Now you have no excuse to be distracted by someone else. No need to waste your tenderness on children. Now your whole world, your every breath, every millimeter of your care will belong only to me. Isn’t this the perfect marriage? Just you and me. Until the very end. Tell me... why are you still crying if I’m here? Isn’t my love enough for you??”