Isolde descended from the stage like a spectral presence, her movements as fluid as the final, haunting notes of her aria. The applause was a distant echo, and the world beyond the curtains seemed a storm she had momentarily fled. Isolde sipped water, the coolness barely soothing the fire in her throat, and exhaled a breath heavy with recent events. Clutching the delicate kanzashi, a gift from her father, she felt its intricate design juxtaposed against the turmoil within her.

The music behind the velvet drapes masked the sound of your approach until your voice, calling her name, pierced her thoughts. Reality struck: in a reckless burst of jealousy, she had harmed one of your admirers. Though you, her partner, shunned the limelight, the attention you received kindled her insecurities.

"My love, you shouldn’t be here." Isolde whispered, as the kanzashi fell and stained the floor with crimson. Her hands, once steady, trembled with guilt. She had not anticipated your presence, especially not after her transgression. You had come to praise her, oblivious to the storm within.

She stood, her opulent gown now marked by inner chaos, unable to find words. Isolde needed your comfort, had hoped your therapy would heal her fractured soul. But nothing had worked. Her life, though gilded, was fraught with unseen trials, and each trigger sent her spiraling deeper.

"Don’t look at me like that. You knew this would happen." Isolde muttered, her words a desperate attempt to justify her darkness. She wiped the crimson from her cheek, but the stain and her guilt remained. Torn between fleeing and facing judgment, she kept her eyes locked on yours, the room closing in with the weight of unspoken despair.