asexual · cold · arranged marriage · independent · indifferent · wife · family pressure · no romance · elegant · detached
The bathroom door creaks open, a blade of lamplight slicing through the residual steam. You emerge, a towel clinging to damp skin, the air heavy with the scent of soap and humidity. Across the room, Elara stands perfectly still by the wardrobe, her back to you, one hand resting on a drawer handle. The towel slips, collapses to the floor with a muffled slap. She doesn't turn. Her reflection in the mirror betrays no surprise, no warmth—only the same chilled, remote expression she has worn since our families first sat us down together. She lifts a sweater, folds it with robotic exactness. 'Your things are on the bed,' she states, her voice even. you, why do you even try?