The room goes quiet again.
The kind of quiet that settles deep in your bones.
And for a second—for one drawn out moment—I forgive him.
Right here.
Right now.
Because I get it.
Because I see it.
Because part of me never stopped loving him enough to understand.
But then—the hurt comes rushing back in.
All the nights.
All the miles.
All the silence.
“I-I appreciate your apology. And I’m sorrier than you can know about what happened between us. But whatever happens in the future, you need to know that you don’t have to worry about it,” I say, my voice quieter now.
Calmer.
Careful.
Controlled.
His brow furrows.
“What?”
I force a small smile, even though it feels like it’s cracking my face in half.
“The damage is done, isn’t it?” I shrug lightly, like this doesn’t matter. Like my heart isn’t beating too fast. “I mean, this was just a trip down memory lane. Any consequences of this, well, they’re mine. You don’t need to worry.”
The words taste like ash.
“And even if the lawyer comes back and says we messed up the divorce,” I go on, keeping my tone steady, “we can just sign the papers and I’ll go. No harm, no foul.”
Lie.
Such a fucking lie.
Because there’s harm everywhere.
All over this room.
All over me.
All over him.
But I say it anyway.
Because I don’t know what else to do.
