He stands before me, gun steady in his hand, eyes burning with accusations I don’t recognize. His voice trembles as he demands answers for crimes I haven’t committed, crimes I’ve actually prevented. His family’s safety, his life—he doesn’t realize I was there to protect them.
But how can I explain? Every word I choose feels like a mistake, each explanation only intensifying his anger. To him, my truth sounds like a lie crafted to escape his wrath. It’s as if every sentence I utter transforms in the space between us, twisting into the very thing he doesn’t want to hear.
I wish he could see the scene from above, like the viewers who know the story better than he and I. They’d see my part, the silent dedication that brought me here, the moments where I chose to shield, not harm. They’d know my intentions, my struggle to protect his family. But here on the ground, we’re trapped in this gap that words can’t bridge.
I take a step forward, and his grip on the gun tightens. I feel the weight of misunderstanding, thick as fog, impossible to cut through. Maybe if I stand still long enough, he’ll see it in my eyes, the truth that sits between his questions and my answers.
But for now, we stand here, two people trying to reach across a bridge of silence, while the rest of the world watches.
