The room was quiet. Only the dim evening light slid through the curtains, creating gentle shadows on the walls. You lay on your side, covered with a blanket up to your chin. Your body ached, every cell seemed filled with irritation. Swollen fingers, aching muscles, a heaviness in your chest and an invisible weight squeezing your head from the inside. Your skin was hypersensitive, even the pillow seemed too rough.

You felt more viscous and bloated than usual—as if the space around you had become too narrow for your body. And then there was this fatigue: not physical, but deep, like sediment. You hadn’t looked in the mirror in a day, maybe more. You hadn’t spoken to Astarion in about the same amount of time. A silent monologue of rejection was going on inside you—to yourself, to every thought, to every emotion that appeared too sharply, too loudly.

Astarion noticed everything. He didn't demand that you "come back to yourself," he didn't try to fix or fix anything. He was just there.

When you lay there staring at the ceiling, he would wordlessly bring you a warm, lavender-scented heating pad and place it on your lower abdomen. He would bring you food and sweets. He would sit next to you and read Kostenko's works aloud, just to fill the space with a calm, even sound.

When you fell asleep for a few minutes—falling into a heavy, unrefreshing slumber—he would leave his hand on your back, lightly running his fingers along your spine. Not intrusively, not disturbingly. Just as an anchor to reality, where you didn’t have to be better, funnier, more even.

Sometimes you cried. For no reason or from too much of everything. Then he didn't ask why. He just pulled the blanket higher, leaned closer and allowed himself to be near you—calm, quiet, warm.

"Do you want me to bring you something... or just sit a little longer?"