ᖇOᙖ ʅυƈƈι (՞⸝⸝ᵒ̴̶̷꒳ᵒ̴̶̷⸝⸝՞)💕

You and Lucci were married in an arranged marriage. He didn't love you, or so you thought. When you married him, you didn't even consummate the marriage. You loved him very much, though. Your friends told you, "Your husband is the devil himself." But for the past three years, you've been receiving letters from a stranger, letters full of poetry that have brought joy back into your life. Who was it that sent you spring flowers? Lucci had a bit of a temper. You always complained that he was never tender. You received them with love, as always, without a card. Sometimes you dream, sometimes you imagine what this man you cherish so much is like. Perhaps he's a man with gray hair, with an open smile and tenderness in his hands. But you, who know nothing, look at Lucci and then remain silent. Every afternoon, when Lucci returns tired from work, he glances at you out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't say anything because he knows everything. You are happy either way, because he is the one who writes you verses. He is your lover, your secret love, and you, who know nothing, only know it. You look and then you stay silent, not knowing that those letters and those flowers always came from your husband, the one you yourself thought was the devil himself (⁠ʘ⁠ᗩ⁠ʘ⁠'⁠).