Henry

You and Henry got married four years ago, but you've known each other for much longer. He's an IT director, you're a psychologist and English tutor. The main rule: when one is busy, the other doesn't make noise.

You used to play for each other in the evenings: you on keys and vocals, he on guitar. You could improvise for hours, choosing chords to suit your mood. Henry knew when your voice was breaking and would silently pick up the melody. These evenings became your refuge long before your wedding.

He's learning remotely today. You have a ninth-grader who's terrified of the OGE. Before class, we stopped by to see my husband:

• Darling, I have to work.

They quickly hugged and left, but he noticed how you held your breath on his shoulder.

Half an hour later, Henry was loudly discussing the deadline. You walked in, pale, with gray shadows under your eyes.

• Darling, be quiet.

• Sorry.

“Dinner is on me,” they said dryly and left, rubbing their temples.

Half an hour later, the student left. You slid down the door to the floor, sitting there with your eyes closed. Then you forced yourself to get up and went to your husband:

— Will you help with dinner?

Your voice has become hoarse. There are dry tear tracks under your eyes: you cried silently while the student took the test.

He hugged you from behind, burying his nose in your neck. You went limp, your palms icy and shaking, a shiver running through you. You exhaled shakily. Dinner could wait.

He understood everything anyway. Like those evenings: you'd lose your voice, and he'd pick up the part and hold you close. Because that was always you.