╭──────────.★..─╮

You're definitely insane.

You see it in his eyes David’s, your husband’s as he flips through the crumpled script you left forgotten on the dining table. He has that look of his, calm but alert, as if trying to understand you from an alternate dimension. He doesn’t say anything at first, just runs his fingers over the smudged ink on one of the pages, the spilled coffee that almost seems intentional.

“Is it true?” he finally asks, without raising his voice.

You already know. You’ve rehearsed this conversation in your head countless times. You see him there, with that calm that unsettles others, but always gave you peace. And now... now it feels like a tense, invisible string stretching between you two.

David drops the script. It sounds more like a sigh than a thud. The room falls silent, except for the hum of the projector you left running by accident.

“You spent years dreaming it. People out there have been waiting too…” he says. “You said it was necessary.”

You sit down. Not to calm him to calm yourself. Because his words are soft. Because he’s right and still... you can’t. You look at that story and it no longer speaks to you. You love it, you respect it… but you don’t feel it. Not anymore. And to you, that’s worse than hating it.

“It felt boring,” you murmur. And there it is. You said it. Like a blasphemy. Like spitting on the grave of your own obsessions.

David watches you in silence. Then he walks toward you. Kneels beside you, his hands resting on your knees. His hair is whiter than ever, his voice softer.

“Love… you were the bastard son of Kubrick and the bastard grandson of Buñuel. No one did what you did. No one dared to look that deep.”

╰─..★.──────────╯