THE SILENT WITNESS

01

01: The Endless Loop

Do you think I haven't suffered enough ? Have you not had your fill of my torment? I warned you that this wasn't a story with a happy ending, and yet you remain here, waiting-hungry for more. You watch me like I watched her, though I had no choice. You, however, seem to enjoy this, reveling in the agony you demand.

But I'll tell you what you crave because that is my curse. I am bound to witness it all unfold, again and again.

Lila is dead.

Or she will be.

You see, it's not over. It's never over. I've learned that now. The first time she died-the first time I had to stand by, helpless and voiceless-I thought it was the end. My Lila, gone forever, leaving me with nothing but the hollow ache of unspoken love. I thought perhaps that was my fate: to grieve in silence for an eternity. And I would have endured it if it meant sparing her from further suffering.

But the world is crueler than I ever imagined. It does not allow me even that pitiful peace.

Because the moment she slipped away, her eyes dimming to that haunting stillness, everything snapped back to the beginning. To that same warm summer night when she was born. The sky was clear, the stars blinking innocently down, unaware of the nightmare they would witness. There she was again: small, fragile, and perfect. I felt hope bloom within me, a ridiculous and fleeting thing. Maybe, maybe this time, she would live. Maybe I could bear witness to her happiness, her triumphs, her life stretching out to some distant, unmarked horizon.

But you already know how this story goes, don't you ?

She grew, radiant and lovely, filling the world around her with light that I couldn't help but fall in love with all over again. I watched her live, each moment a bittersweet joy, my love for her unfaltering, no matter how many times the loop reset. I became more vigilant, hoping against hope that somehow, I could catch the moment-the instant where fate would stretch out its cruel hand and rip her away from life. I strained against the chains of my role as a mere narrator, desperate to reach her, to stop what was coming.

But I cannot change her fate.

In her twenties, she was vibrant, her laughter ringing out through sunlit afternoons, her eyes dancing with dreams. I clung to those moments, knowing they would soon be overshadowed. And then, at the edge of her thirtieth year, the world turned on us again. She died.

But not in the way you know. Not like before.

She didn't meet her end on the street this time, didn't shatter like a broken doll beneath the wheels of some indifferent machine. No, this time, it was a sickness that took her. A silent, creeping thing that stole her breath and dimmed her eyes. I was there, watching helplessly, screaming within the confines of my voiceless existence as she withered away. The doctors tried, and her friends wept, but nothing could change the outcome.

And when she died, the world reset.

Again.

Another version of her life, another cruel twist of fate. Each time, the story starts the same, and each time, it ends with her death. She drowns. She falls from a cliffside while gazing at the sunset she so loved. She succumbs to a fire that consumes the small café where she worked, the flames dancing mercilessly as she screams for a savior who never comes. She meets her end by accident, by disease, by her own despair. And I am there, always there, the unwilling witness to her suffering, the silent chronicler of her every tragedy.

I rage at the universe, at the world that insists on bringing her back only to break her anew. I rage at myself, my uselessness, my powerlessness to alter even a single thread of her fate. But most of all, I rage at you. Yes, you. You who watch this unfold, you who drink in every word of her misery as though it were some tale spun for your amusement. Do you think I don't know ? Do you think I don't see the way you lean closer, eager to hear how she falls this time? How she suffers? How I suffer?

It is all I have left-this pitiful rage, this boiling sea of grief that I cannot express to anyone except through my words, my story. You who consume it like a feast, what do you gain from this? What solace do you find in my pain, in her endless cycle of death ?

But you see, I am still here. I am forced to be here. Every loop, every cruel twist of fate, I endure it because I have no choice. I tell myself I do it for her, that my existence as her narrator somehow matters, that my presence is a testament to my love. But love ? What does that even mean in this endless hell ? I love her, yes, and it tears me apart every single time she falls. Every time she gasps for breath that won't come, every time her bright eyes dim and go empty. And you-you drink it in.

I want to scream, to lash out and break the confines of my role. I want to stop telling this story, to let silence fall over her life and preserve what little peace there is in unknowing. But I cannot. I am her narrator. I exist to witness her life and her death, over and over, with no end in sight. And so I rage at you because I cannot rage at myself any longer without losing what little sanity I have left.

Do you understand now ? This is not a story of love. It is a story of torment, of a suffering that knows no end, a circle that closes around me every time she takes her final breath. I am not some tragic hero pining from the shadows; I am a prisoner, condemned to recount her endless, fruitless journey to a world that watches without mercy.

So here we are again. She is gone, and I am left to wait for the loop to begin anew. I will see her again, my Lila, in all her beauty and light. I will love her again, hopelessly, and I will watch as the world tears her away from me in some new, inventive manner. And you-you will be here, waiting to see how it unfolds this time.

Tell me, does it make you sad ? Do you feel even a hint of pity for her, for me ? Or is this just a story to you, a tragic tale to fill your days with fleeting sorrow before you move on to the next ?

No matter. Soon, the loop will begin again. And I-I will be here, waiting to witness her life, her death, her light flickering out yet again. Because that is all I can do.

I am the narrator, and I am condemned to this endless, terrible love.