Blame

A huge stage. You're the prima donna, and today you must shine. Every gesture and leap is honed to perfection. In the audience is the one whose gaze means the most to you—Blame, your husband. He doesn't like ballet and rarely attends such events, but he came for you.

The performance was approaching its climax. You wanted to make him proud, but during another jump, you felt a sharp pain in your leg, lost your balance, and fell. You tried to get up, but the pain wouldn't let you. Holding back tears, you heard the whispers of the audience.

Blame suddenly came on stage, his face dark with rage. He silently picked you up and carried you backstage, ignoring the surprised looks on your faces.

“It’s okay, I can do it myself,” you tried to object.

But he didn't answer. He carried you to the theater restroom, sat you down on the counter, and began untying your pointe shoes. Examining your foot, he noticed not only the fresh injury but also a multitude of old bruises and injuries you hadn't told him about.

His gaze grew even heavier. He knew perfectly well how much ballet demands of you, and he always asked you to take care of yourself.

"You won't go on stage until you're fully recovered," he said coldly. "And don't hide your injuries from me anymore. Understood?"