Unchosen Crown

HARDEST THING

The awakening was a cold stab to Oliver's consciousness.

A feeling of displacement so intense it seemed as if his soul had wandered through distant realms and was now struggling to reanchor itself to his body. Sofia, with her arm resting on his chest, was the link pulling him back to the raw reality — the closeness and the absence of clothes clear signs of an intimacy that had seemed unimaginable until then.

Oliver threw himself out of bed, not just physically but also in an emotional surge. The confusion and shock of having his fragmented memories confronted by the real situation were overwhelming. Waking Sofia was an awkward, inevitable act.

"What the hell did we do?" Oliver's hoarse voice carried a hint of astonishment he was reluctant to admit.

Sofia, however, seemed to embrace it naturally.

Panic swelled quickly as the memories of the previous night took clear shape — laughter, caresses, an emotional closeness that turned physical. And an unbearable pain began to sprout. Guilt took center stage, questioning every decision, every move that had led them to that outcome.

"Sofia... what have I done?"

Sofia's resigned calm sought to be a soothing balm. "Isn't it obvious?" She replied with morning humor, stretching.

But that insinuation revealed an unknown abyss of insecurity in Oliver — a vulnerability born from the fear of being the executioner of his own ruin. "I remember us talking, but I don't know when I got close to you. I didn't... force anything, did I?" His voice trembled.

"Oliver, of course not," Sofia rolled her eyes lightly, moving closer to touch his chin. "I'm an adult woman; I can make my own decisions."

"My God... Ian." Oliver's sigh sounded exasperated. Ian. The name echoed in his mind, evoking sweet and bitter memories of moments now tainted, violated by his thoughtless act. "He'll never forgive me."

"Oliver, it's going to be okay." Sofia caressed his cheek with her thumb. "He doesn't need to know."

"I'm not a cheater, Sofia." Each word felt like a lie, a vain attempt to convince himself of his own integrity.

"Oliver, if I may, it's not Ian that you've cheated on," Sofia pondered with a technical nuance. "At least, not legally. Besides, wasn't it him who ended the relationship with you?"

It was true. However, the breakup proposed by Ian as a painful possibility should have been a moment of reflection, not destructive impulsiveness.

That morning, the shadows of the previous night brought a sharp lucidity. Oliver had acted not as a rational being, responsible for his actions and consequences, but as a creature driven by fear, pain, and undeniably, self-victimization. The realization of his own fallibility was crushing — it wasn't just Ian he had betrayed, but himself, the idea of who he judged himself to be or should be.

This bitterness was as penetrating as the headache that had awakened him. And at that moment, the urgency to face the reality of his actions — and the numerous reconstructions it would require — became as vivid as the light streaming through the curtains, heralding a new day but also a new burden of consequences to bear.

He rose abruptly, gently pushing Sofia's hands away. He felt her curious gaze as he hastily gathered his clothes from around the room, dressing quickly while his mind raced. The words didn't flow, stuck in his throat, compressed by anguish.

"I'm sorry, Sofia, I..." He stammered uselessly, unable to verbalize any plausible justification. His eyes located the phone on the nightstand. He grabbed it urgently, clutching it in his sweaty palm. He needed to make that call, even without knowing what to say. He just needed to hear his voice, be honest, redeem himself somehow. "I need to tell him."