I stayed there longer than I intended, just… looking at her. Watching the way her chest rose and fell with each breath. It was a slow rhythm, far too gentle compared to the storm she kept locked behind her eyes when she was awake.
A part of me—no, the worst part of me—wished she would open her eyes, just so I could see them and confirm she was still here with me in this world.
But then I remembered the fear in them. The suspicion. The pain.
And suddenly I prayed she would sleep just a little longer.
The room was dim, only the low lamp by the bedside casting a soft amber glow on her face. It made her look younger. Softer. Untouched by the shadows of our shared history.
I lowered myself into the chair beside the bed, the wooden legs creaking softly. My elbows rested on my knees as I leaned forward, weaving my fingers together just to stop them from shaking.
What a pathetic sight I must look like—this man everyone feared, reduced to trembling because of the woman lying asleep before him.
The Weight of Unspoken Words
There were so many words stuck inside my throat.
So many sentences I never managed to give her.
Apologies… explanations… confessions I had buried so deep even I pretended they never existed.
How many times had I wanted to tell her?
That I didn't hate her.
That I never did.
That if anything, I hated myself more—for the burden my name placed on her, for the isolation she endured, for every tear she shed alone because of circumstances I should have shouldered instead of her.
But words are useless when spoken too late.
And I—coward that I was—never spoke them when it mattered.
"...I'm sorry," I whispered now, knowing she couldn't hear it, knowing it was safe precisely because she couldn't.
The apology hung in the air, thin and meaningless.
A Memory That Burns
My gaze drifted to her hand resting outside the blanket. I remembered—vividly, painfully—the last time I held that hand.
Back then, it had been cold with fear.
Cold with distrust.
Cold with the knowledge that she believed me capable of horrible things.
And what destroyed me most was that she wasn't wrong. Not entirely.
I reached out, hesitated halfway, my fingers freezing in the empty space between us.
She would recoil if she were awake.
Not because she hated me… but because she feared what being close to me meant for her. The consequences. The pressure. The suffocating expectations.
I pulled my hand back slowly.
Distance.
I could at least give her that.
Her Pain, My Punishment
Every time I looked at her, I was reminded of the truth:
She didn't break because she was weak.
She broke because she had been strong for too long.
And I let her be strong alone.
The guilt twisted in my stomach, sharp and familiar.
I had carried it so long it had become a part of me—a second spine holding me upright, even as it bent me in shame.
"I should have protected you…"
My voice cracked.
"From them. From everything. From me."
The last word left my lips like a confession and a curse.
The Moment She Stirred
Just as I lowered my head into my hands, I heard the faintest rustle.
Her fingers twitched.
My heart stopped. Every muscle in my body tensed as if bracing for impact.
Would she wake?
Would she look at me with those wary eyes?
Would she push me away again, even with her silence?
Or would she…
No. I shouldn't hope for things I had no right to hope for.
I lifted my head slowly.
Her eyelids fluttered, lashes trembling like a bird's wings before flight.
Her breathing hitched—not enough to wake her fully, but enough to make my throat tighten in anticipation.
She looked like she was dreaming.
And God, I wished I knew what she dreamed of.
A place without fear, maybe.
A life without me, probably.
Whatever it was, her face looked softer still.
Peaceful.
The kind of peaceful I had never been able to give her in reality.
Jao closed the door behind him with a soft click, the sound strangely final, like a period at the end of a sentence I wasn't ready to finish. Silence stretched through the room, deceptively gentle, but my chest felt tight—so tight that each breath scraped like it was borrowed from someone else.
I stared at the doorway long after he disappeared, as if expecting him to return with the words I didn't want to hear yet desperately needed. But nothing came. Only the faint echo of our conversation lingered, circling in my mind.
Slowly, I let myself sink back into the chair, the wooden frame creaking under the weight of everything I was holding inside. My fingers tightened around the fabric of my clothes—anything to ground me.
"He knows."
The realization hit with a cold finality.
Jao had that look—the one people wear when they've seen too much, when secrets are no longer shadows but shapes with sharp edges. His silence said more than any accusation. It meant the truth was already out there, crawling into places I had never wanted it to go.
I rubbed my palms over my face, trying to steady myself. The burn behind my eyes warned me that I was dangerously close to breaking again. But I couldn't—not now. Not when the world felt like it was waiting for me to make the next mistake.
A knock shattered the stillness.
Not loud. Just a gentle tap. But it cut through the room like lightning.
I froze.
"May I come in?"
The voice through the door was low—careful, almost hesitant. But unmistakable.
My breath stumbled.
Him.
I didn't answer. Couldn't. My throat felt glued shut.
The doorknob turned slowly. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with the same quiet Jao had used, except… this quiet wasn't final. It was deliberate. Controlled.
Like he was trying not to frighten me.
He stood there for a moment, staring at me as if he needed to memorize every detail of my face before moving closer. His eyes—gods, his eyes—held that familiar storm. Regret. Fury. Fear. And beneath all of it, something fragile, something that hurt more than anything else: devotion.
"I saw Jao leave," he said softly. "He looked… worried."
I swallowed. "He… always worries too much."
"Does he?" he replied gently, stepping closer. "Or do you pretend too well?"
My jaw trembled before I could stop it.
He didn't look away. "Tell me what happened."
"I—" My voice cracked. "I don't know how to say it."
He moved with slow, deliberate steps until he stood right in front of me. He didn't touch me. He didn't force anything. He simply lowered himself to my eye level, waiting—quietly, painfully patient.
"You don't have to say it perfectly," he murmured. "Just say it honestly."
His presence, usually overwhelming, felt strangely fragile now—like he was the one afraid I might shatter if he breathed wrong.
I exhaled shakily.
"Jao found out," I whispered. "About the letters. About the visit. About… everything."
His eyes darkened. "Everything?"
My lips parted, trembling. I gave the smallest nod.
He closed his eyes briefly—one slow inhale, one controlled exhale. When he opened them again, there was no anger. Only an ache so deep it mirrored my own.
"Then tell me what you want me to do," he said. "Tell me where to stand. Tell me how to protect you."
I stared at him—the man who could bring kingdoms to their knees, sitting in front of me like he was the one waiting for judgment.
And for the first time since this all began, I felt the weight of choice settling in my hands.