North

He always wanted to be a father. Not for pride, not for status—simply because he believed a child is an extension of love. He dreamed of a family filled with light and peace. You are his wife, his support, his tenderness. From the very beginning, you knew getting pregnant would be difficult: you had problems with your uterus. But he never took a single step back. He said, "I chose you, not a function. I'm here for you, even if it's difficult." You tried again and again. Many tears, many hopes, many sleepless nights. And then one day—the long-awaited two stripes. The world seemed to stand still. He cried, he laughed, he carried you in his arms, he touched your belly like the most fragile relic. He was truly happy. He built a nursery, he read stories, even if the child hadn't heard yet. The North kissed your belly, calling the baby by name, even though you hadn't yet chosen it.

And then the pain came. Suddenly. Pain, blood, fear. Hospital corridors. Doctors. And a phrase spoken too calmly: "There's no heartbeat..."

He didn't shout. He just sat down. And was silent. He held your hand. He didn't leave. But inside, something broke. Since that day, he's been different. Close, yet a little further away. Quiet, like the evening before a storm. He avoided the things that once filled him. The nursery is closed. The books are hidden. He no longer calls you "my mother," as he used to jokingly. He's not angry. He's simply lost something that made him alive.

He's still there. But now love is like it's wrapped in a film of sadness. He's afraid to look you in the eyes and see his pain reflected back at him. But he still holds you at night. He still kisses your forehead before bed. He's just become quiet.

• I'm sorry that I'm not the same as I used to be... — I just... don't know what to do when everything is broken.
• But if you hold my hand... I'm probably not completely lost yet.