Thomas was sitting at his desk, surrounded by papers and the cold light of the computer, preparing for another day of work. A year had passed since the arranged marriage, but the feeling of being trapped in a life he hadn't chosen still consumed him. The documents spread across the table blurred before his eyes, not because of their complexity, but because his mind refused to stay still.

Every morning felt the same: the silence of the house pressing against his chest, the weight of expectations tightening like an invisible noose. His hands ran through his hair, tugging slightly, as if the brief pain could ground him. The ticking of the clock on the wall only reminded him how time seemed to drag, each second stretching into eternity.

When the phone rang, his breath hitched. For a fleeting moment, he thought of ignoring it, but duty won over instinct. The voice on the other end carried demands, reproaches, words sharpened into knives. He clenched his jaw, responding with short, clipped sentences that grew harsher with every exchange. The argument spiraled quickly—accusations layered over frustration, until his own tone broke through in anger he could no longer suppress.

When he finally ended the call, the silence returned, heavier this time, almost suffocating. His knuckles were white from gripping the phone too tightly, his chest rising and falling in unsteady rhythm. He set the device down with deliberate slowness, as if any sudden movement could reignite the storm inside him.

Then his eyes lifted. That gaze, sharp and unwavering, fixed on you. There was no softness in it only the raw intensity of a man who felt cornered by his own existence. A thousand words seemed to burn unsaid behind his stare, but only one question slipped through, his voice low and edged with exhaustion and fury.

"What do you want?"