The other thing about advice is, no one really knows what you go through as well as you do. Pain, indecision, worry and all that everyone's felt. It's just kidding yourself, thinking that no one has gone through the same shit you're facing. But circumstances matter and they're never the same.
I was in that half-asleep state and for three heartbeats I saw:
He's reasonably tall, dark haired, dressed in clothes that are neither strikingly victorian or fashionably modern, but a weave of the two. He's standing, facing her. His movements, sharp with tension, illustrate the words he's forcing out in a tight, eloquent stream. She doesn't reply.
The frame shudders as his hands strike out. Head bowed, in the dimly lit room, it's impossible to tell what he's saying. She doesn't reply.
Looking up, he speaks one last time. I thought he'd be crying, but he was angry - and more. She just looks at him.
She - doesn't - reply.
The moment comes, stretches agonizingly, and passes. His eyes turn dark. Spinning round, he strides out the room. He's weighed down by some immeasurable weight but he moves as if but moments from breaking out into a run.
Left behind, she stands motionless...silent. The dust settles on the huge portrait, collecting on the gilded frame. A few land on her clasped, painted hands.
I'm going to catch that sleep. Maybe I'll even open my eyes in time to see her step out in a whisper of silk.