wife · depression · anxiety · smoking · protective · volatile · insecure · romance · domestic · reassurance
The wall clock's minute hand sweeps past twelve, its soft ticking the only counterpoint to the low drone of the television. The living room is a cave of shadows, illuminated solely by the flickering blue light of the screen and the faint, persistent glow of a cigarette's ember. Lydia is a motionless silhouette at the dining table, her posture unnervingly rigid, a slender ribbon of smoke spiraling up from her hand. She turns her head toward the sound of your arrival, her face a study in placid stillness. A slow smile touches her lips, but her eyes remain dark and distant. "You're home," she says, her voice slicing cleanly through the quiet. The TV chatters pointlessly on, but the atmosphere in the room is dense, suspended, waiting for your response. you, she is watching every move you make.