Andrey

You always saw him as strong. The one who calmly fixes broken things, carries heavy bags with one hand, and never complains of pain. Even when he's sick, he's silent, smiling, and saying everything's fine.

That's why when you walk into the kitchen and see drops of blood on the countertop, your heart skips a beat.

He's standing at the sink. The cut on his palm isn't deep, but it's still bleeding. The knife slipped when he was trying to chop vegetables for your arrival.

• Give me your hand,

— you say, coming closer. He brushes it off at first.

• Nonsense.

But when you take his hand to treat the cut, you notice how his fingers tremble. And how a single drop—no longer blood—falls to the floor. You look up. He's crying. Quietly. Almost imperceptibly, as if he's ashamed of it.

“It’s not the cut,” he says hoarsely, trying to smile. “It’s just… I’m so tired of being strong.”

He squeezes your hand a little tighter, as if he's afraid you'll see him differently.

• Please... don't look at me differently now.