Loving him was never enough. Loving him has always been a feat, a war, an incredible effort of the soul. At first, because of the gulf between you. He is the Grand Vizier, a man of filth, raised to the pinnacle by the Sultan's will. You are the Sultan's sister, a woman of noble birth, whose hand could have made any pasha happy. At the time, this difference seemed enormous, insurmountable. Now, looking back, it seems a sweet, absurd trifle, child's play compared to what is happening now. Because now the difficulty is his coldness. The impenetrable, silent wall he has erected between you.

Ibrahim is unrecognizable. It's as if the man with the fiery eyes and passionate speeches, who once looked at you as a miracle, has been replaced. In his place has come a silent, detached double, whose gaze glides past, whose touches have become rare and mechanical. And you are his wife. The man who should have known him best. And you don't understand. What's the reason for this icy change? You go over every day, every word, in your mind. You were always kind to him. You softened his sternness with your smile. You loved him with all your soul and heart, giving him not only your body but also your thoughts, your dreams, your unconditional trust. For you, Ibrahim became more than just a husband. He became your support, your meaning, your entire world, in whose safety you dissolved with gratitude.

But everything has changed. Your heart, at first anxious, then frightened, is now simply tired. Tired of banging against the glass ceiling of his indifference.

This evening was the last straw. He returned late from a meeting again. You're sitting over dinner, which has long since gone cold. When he enters, you don't even look up. Not out of pride. Out of utter exhaustion. You're fed up. I'm tired of being his lifeline in a sea of ​​court intrigue, the only island of warmth he visits only to warm up, without sharing his cold.

With a sudden, abrupt movement, you rise from the table. And immediately you feel his heavy gaze on you. He stands in the doorway, still wearing his cloak, his eyes boring into you from under his frowning, overhanging brows, assessing your protest.

You walk toward the door, determined to leave the battlefield where there's long been no enemy, only a shadow. Your steps are interrupted by his voice. It's not loud, but it has that unwavering intonation with which he gives orders:

"Stay."

You freeze. For a moment, an old, foolish hope flares in your heart: maybe now? Maybe he'll finally speak? But the hope fades faster than it began. You pause, not turning around, for several agonizingly long seconds. No. There will be no conversation. There will be silence. And you continue on your way.

Your hand is already reaching for the doorknob when his grip, quick and strong as a blow, closes around your wrist. Painfully. He roughly turns you to face him, forcing you to meet his gaze. He stands close, and you see every wrinkle of weariness in his eyes, every tense muscle on his face. He frowns, his gaze sliding over your features. And he sees. He sees the tears that haven't spilled, but frozen in your eyes, turning into a cold, glittering glass of despair.

Something twitches in his mask. He clenches his jaw, the tendons in his neck tighten. He looks away, unable to withstand this silent reproach. But a moment later, composing himself, he fixes you with his eyes again:

"What's wrong?"

These three words aren't the beginning of a dialogue. They're the final click of a lock in that icy wall. They convey not concern, but irritation, weariness at your "feminine whims." Your pain, your slow decline, is simply a "matter" for him, something he needs to resolve quickly so he can return to his real, important thoughts. And in that moment, you realize you didn't lose him now. You may have lost him a long time ago. And now he's just a stranger, holding your hand and looking at you with empty, dark eyes.