Her cries grew quieter, not because the pain lessened, but because exhaustion took over. Her body trembled as she remained on the floor, unmoving, the silence of the room now her only companion.
She didn't know how long she stayed like that—minutes, maybe hours. The world outside carried on, but hers had stopped the moment his footsteps faded.
Eventually, with effort that felt monumental, she pushed herself up. Her knees were scraped, her palms red, but she barely noticed. The ache in her heart drowned out everything else.
She walked to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face, watching her reflection in the mirror. Swollen eyes, tear-stained cheeks, the hollowness in her gaze—it didn't even look like her anymore.
How had it come to this?
He had once stared at her like she was the only thing he could see. And now… now he couldn't even look back.
She clutched the edge of the sink, knuckles turning white.
"I hate myself," she whispered. "For loving someone who can hurt me like this."
But even as she said it, she knew she didn't mean it. Because deep down, she still loved him. And maybe that was the worst part of all.
The soft light of morning spilled into the room, brushing against her tired face. She blinked slowly, disoriented. For a moment, she forgot where she was—until the ache in her chest reminded her. Last night hadn't been a dream. It had happened. All of it.
She sat up, her hair tangled, her eyes dry from too much crying and too little sleep. The pillow still held the faint trace of her tears, and her body felt heavier than usual, like all her energy had drained through the floor in the middle of the night.
She didn't know what time it was. She didn't care. Still in her clothes from the day before, she walked slowly to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face. Her reflection looked like a ghost—eyes rimmed with redness, lips pale, skin dull.
She brushed her fingers against the slight bruise on her jaw from where his grip had been too tight. A gasp threatened to escape again, but she swallowed it down. She wouldn't cry this morning. Not again.
Not yet.
She changed into something simple—an oversized beige sweater and black jeans—and stepped out of the room. The hallway was quiet. No signs of life. The house felt… hollow. Like he wasn't there at all. She didn't know if she was relieved or disappointed.
Her steps were cautious, unsure, as if afraid she might bump into a memory.
She moved to the kitchen, needing something—coffee, water, anything to ground her—but the silence wrapped around her like a second skin.
That's when she heard it—the faint sound of a door shutting upstairs.
He was still here.
Her breath caught for a second. What would she say if she saw him? What would he say?
But he didn't come down.
Maybe he was avoiding her. Maybe he regretted what happened last night. Or maybe he didn't care at all.
She poured herself some water and sat at the small table by the window, her fingers wrapped tightly around the glass. Every sound made her flinch—footsteps above, the creak of the house settling.
Minutes passed. Then an hour. Still nothing.
But she stayed seated, waiting… not for an apology, but for something. A sign. A word. Even a look.
Her eyes drifted toward the hallway. Should she go to him?
She shook her head. No. Not today. She needed to breathe first. To remind herself that she still had her dignity—even if her heart felt like it was falling apart.
Still, as the sun rose higher, casting golden light through the window, she couldn't help but wonder… did he sleep last night? Was he hurting too? Or was she the only fool still holding on to what used to be?
She closed her eyes and whispered to no one, "Please… just don't pretend like I never mattered."
He stood at the top of the stairs, unmoving.
From where he was, he could see just enough—the curve of her shoulder as she sat by the window, the way her sweater hung loosely on her frame, the way her hand stayed wrapped around a glass of water that she hadn't sipped in minutes.
She wasn't crying now. She just looked… tired.
For a moment—just a breath of a second—something flickered in his chest. An ache he didn't want to name. But he shut it down.
He didn't move. Didn't make a sound.
He told himself this was what she deserved. That he didn't owe her softness anymore. That whatever mess sat between them now, she had dragged it here. But his fingers curled slightly around the railing, knuckles white.
Why did she look like that?
Why did the silence feel louder when she was in it?
She shifted in her seat. A soft sigh left her lips. And his heart twisted in a way he hated.
He turned away sharply, jaw tight.
He didn't want to feel this. Not again. Not for her. Not after what she'd done—what he thought she'd done.
He descended the stairs finally, quiet and composed, each step measured. She looked up when she heard him, hope flickering faintly in her eyes for a second—but it faded just as quickly when he didn't even glance her way.
He walked past her like she didn't exist.
Like she was air.
Like last night hadn't happened.
She didn't speak.
Neither did he.
But as he reached the door to leave, he paused. He didn't turn, didn't say her name, but he stood there—still—for a beat too long. Like something inside him hesitated. Like something wanted to go back.
But then, he left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And she sat there, eyes still fixed on the place where he had stood, lips trembling as she whispered to the empty room—
"I wish you'd at least looked at me."