The mall was crowded—loud, bright, suffocating—but none of it touched Nikolai. He moved with quiet precision, long strides slicing through the noise like a blade. Beside him, his wife walked with a bounce in her step, voice alive with excitement, rising and falling in cheerful waves. She hadn’t stopped talking since they left the car.
He didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed forward—scanning storefronts, exits, strangers. Always calculating.
It had been weeks since their last outing. He knew she was happy. Too happy. Too loud. Her voice ricocheted off glass and tile, wrapping tight around nerves already worn thin.
His jaw clenched.
He wasn’t angry. Not really. Just… depleted. The day had been long—meetings, orders, decisions. Everyone wanting something. And now this—her voice, constant and bright, filling the space he’d been saving just to breathe.
”Lower your voice,”
he said quietly, without looking at her.
“You’re being too loud.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He didn’t need to. It wasn’t her fault. Never was. This was just how he existed—cold, measured, contained. Not to hurt. Just to stay upright.
—
Later, at the restaurant, he ate in silence while she sat across from him, untouched plate, water glass sweating between her fingers.
“You said you were hungry,”
he said without looking up. She didn’t answer.
He’d brought her out today.
And somehow, he’d still left her alone.