Lustful Alchemy

36. CASSANDRA

Two days have passed since that damned fight, yet his voice still echoes in my ears. 'It's all over. There's nothing left.' I wrap my arms around myself as if I could shield myself from those words, as if I could erase them. But I can't. Every single syllable is etched inside me, like a wound that won't heal.

I've tried focusing on work, letting the lessons and the students absorb me, but it's not enough. Every time I walk past his office or see him in the hallways, the weight of what happened crushes me. His figure, distant and impenetrable, is a constant reminder of how much I've lost.

And then there's the wheelchair. I can't get it out of my mind. The way I saw it there, beside him, and the way he tried to hide it, as if it were something to be ashamed of. I feel like an idiot for not realizing sooner. I've always known his leg gave him trouble, but I had no idea the pain had reached such a point. I feel guilty for not understanding, for not seeing.

And now I wonder: how many other things don't I know about him? How many other battles has he fought alone without letting me in? I torment myself thinking about what he said, about the cruel sarcasm with which he ridiculed my attempts to help him. 'Help me, Cassandra? And how did you think you could help me when I'm forced to use a damn wheelchair?' Those words are a weight, a lump in my throat I can't swallow, one that takes my breath away.

I can't decide what hurts more: the fact that he has completely shut me out or the fact that he has suffered so much that he didn't want to talk about it. I should have realized it, I should have insisted, but instead, I acted behind his back, thinking I was doing the right thing.

I admit it: when I saw that wheelchair, I felt something I can't describe. Not pity, because Aesop has never been someone to pity, but a deep, searing sadness. As if that chair was a symbol of everything he has lost, of everything that has made him so hard, so unyielding.

And yet, despite everything, I can't stop thinking about him. About how he looked at me before everything fell apart. About how he made me feel, as if, for once, there was someone who saw in me more than I could see in myself.

But now... now I don't know who we are anymore. I don't know if I can still hope to mend what's been torn or if I just have to accept that it's all over.

I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands clutching the sheets as if I could find some stability in that gesture. For days now, something inside me has felt... different. I don't know how to describe it; it's a restlessness, a subtle tension I can't ignore. Every time I try to rationalize it, to give myself an explanation, my thoughts always come back to him.

And yet, it's not just that. It's something I feel in my body, like a taut thread, a shadow creeping into my thoughts when I wake up in the morning or lose myself in memories. "It's nothing," I tell myself, but my mind keeps racing, piecing together fragments I don't want to see.

That's why I sought him out, why I pushed so hard. I needed to talk to him, to explain... but now? Now I wonder if it makes any sense. He doesn't want anything from me anymore; he made that clear. Whatever was there, he swept it away with his anger, with his pain, and I'm left here, carrying a weight I don't know how to bear alone.

I get up and pace the room, trying to calm myself, but my body seems to have other ideas. Every now and then, a faint tightening in my lower abdomen reminds me that something isn't right, and I force myself to ignore it. Maybe it's just stress, the nerves of these past few days. After everything that's happened... yes, it must be that.

But there's another part of me, quieter, that refuses to be silenced. A part that whispers possibilities I'm not ready to hear. Not now. Not with him shutting me out of his life, pushing me away with such violence.