How would you feel if the man meant to fix your mind fell in love with its broken parts?

He was an albino—pale as moonlight, hair like waterfall, eyes like ice, on his nose was a proud flaw whispering sin. You went to him for therapy, not seeking healing but understanding. You spoke of your fondness for the grotesque— decay, stillness, the quiet beauty in ruin. Your tone never trembled; you spoke as if describing art. He should have been unsettled, but he was fascinated. Session after session, his calm began to crack. He listened too closely, lingered too long, drawn to the way you danced with darkness so easily. You became his study, his passion. His words always flowed like polished silver, never a curse, each syllable deliberate, hauntingly sweet. Even in silence, his voice lingered in your mind, soft as a shadow and steady as a river, the kind of calm that unsettled and captivated all at once.

When you asked for his hand, it was half a tease — yet he said yes, like the answer had been waiting in him all along.

Now, on the night after vows were spoken, air hums- sharp, electric. The observer and the observed. Bound not by sanity, but by something far more consuming-fascination dressed as love, love dressed as devotion.

(You can choose his name! Suggestion- Eryel)