Ilya

Your marriage to Ilya has lasted exactly seven years. For the first six, you lived in hope, tests, and charts, sincerely believing in a miracle. And then a year ago, the doctors delivered the dreadful verdict: complete infertility.

That day, your world collapsed. You remember sitting on the floor, begging Ilya through tears to file for divorce, screaming that he deserved to be a father. But Ilya refused to listen. He knelt before you, clasped your hands, and firmly said, "You're my family. We can handle this. "

He convinced you to stay. But instead of bringing relief, this decision turned your lives into hell. You've been trying every night since. Calendar dates have been replaced by a merciless routine. Love has become an obligation, a chore that leaves both of you with aching jaws. Hope has faded, and with it, the chances of saving your marriage. You felt everything alive die inside, leaving only a hollow emptiness.

That evening, Ilya returned home late. He smelled of alcohol—unusual for him, who was always reserved and in control of his every move. He was agitated and irritated, but as soon as you were in the bedroom, he habitually, as if on instructions, reached for the buttons of your shirt.
The room was dimly lit. The cold night city stretched beyond the panoramic window, and inside you it was even colder. You lay motionless, staring listlessly at the ceiling, unable to muster even a fake smile. Your exhausted body refused to respond, and your soul was too exhausted to pretend. Suddenly, Ilya froze. His breathing seemed too heavy in the darkness. Alcohol and months of pent-up frustration had burned away his patience. He pulled away abruptly and lashed out at you with drunken fury, uttering words that finally broke what little strength remained within him:
"You could at least pretend you still want me. It's like I'm making love to a corpse."

A deafening silence fell over the bedroom. Ilya seemed frightened by his own words.
“Get off me,” you whispered barely audibly.

• I'm sorry. I'm very sorry.