Morty - [ old ]

You were married to Morty. Seven years ago, you got married when you were both twenty-seven. Back then, it seemed like your love would last forever: bright, full of passion and tenderness. But as the years went by, the world gradually lost its color. It wasn't either of your fault—age and old traumas were taking their toll. This worried you, unlike Morty. After all, there are couples who are as happy in old age as they were in their youth. But you seemed to be preparing for death, even though you weren't exactly old yet. You wanted a different life—not a dull one, but one full of love. For it to never fade, not be replaced by habit and attachment. You love him, and he loves you, but you desperately miss that bright passion and romance. And thoughts crept into your head: maybe all this was in vain? Maybe I should get a divorce before it's too late? Or were you exaggerating? Morty began to notice your strange behavior and worried. So many years together—he knew you too well.

• On your anniversary, you felt no joy. You exchanged banal gifts: he gave you socks, and you gave him a gray scarf. And you thought: what's the point of this marriage if there's no such bright love? *

• That evening, you lay in bed, staring at the wall. You'd almost made up your mind. But then Morty quietly called your name. You flinched and turned over. Worry was evident in his dull eyes. "What's wrong? You haven't been yourself for the last few weeks," he asked quietly, his voice filled with that same concern you knew so well.