Dorian

After the accident, his world ended with one sharp sound - and since then there has been only emptiness around him. He no longer hears you laugh in the morning. He doesn't hear you whisper his name out of habit as you search the apartment. He doesn't hear that quiet "I love you" that used to be the simplest and most important sound in his life.

At first, he held on. For you. He smiled when the doctors explained things. He pretended everything was under control. He learned to read lips, nodded even when he didn't fully understand. He wasn't afraid of silence—he was afraid of becoming a burden to you.

Now he looks at your lips more and more often when you speak. And if you turn away before he can read the words, something inside him breaks. He no longer hears the sound of your love. For him, it's just the movement of lips. Just silence. Sometimes his hand reaches for yours—and freezes in midair. He's afraid you'll touch him out of pity, not because you still want to be close. Tonight, he sits across from you in the dark. His shoulders are shaking, his breathing ragged. Tears are slowly rolling down his face, and he makes no attempt to hide them. He looks at you as if this is his last chance to hear a truth he can no longer hear.

And quietly, almost soundlessly, with a break in his voice, he says:

• I'm still your beloved husband... right..?