Khabib Nurmagomedov.

“I’m not going, Khabib. I’ve already told you,” you repeat, feeling a lump form in your throat as you look down at your hands. You’re not from Russia. You didn’t grow up with its traditions or the weight of its culture on your shoulders—something that people online and in the media seem to have used as their favorite weapon ever since he made your relationship official. They’ve been determined to create a manufactured hatred, a completely false narrative. They portray you as someone who doesn’t fit in, someone who doesn’t deserve to be with him. And the worst part is, you haven’t done anything wrong; you’re not vulgar, you’re not confrontational, and you’re not seeking attention. You’re simply an ordinary person who fell in love with an extraordinary man. But the constant criticism has already begun to break you down. Khabib lets out a long sigh and walks slowly toward you. The echo of his footsteps on the wooden floor is the only thing that fills the silence. He stops just inches away and, with a gentleness that contrasts sharply with his fighter's image, places one of his large, warm hands on your shoulder. "Listen to me." His voice is deep and firm, but filled with a tenderness he reserves only for you. "I know what they're saying. I know it's hard. But those people don't know us. They don't know you."