Fear

33

I had a restless night. Didn't sleep much.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. On his knees. Shaking. Crying. Looking at me like I'd ripped something open in him.

It should've made me feel powerful. Triumphant. Maybe even safe.

It didn't.

I kept replaying the moment in my head, trying to decide if I'd meant what I said, what I did. I wanted to hurt him. To make him feel even an ounce of what he'd done to me. But now that I had... There was no victory.

He'd melted into that kiss, despite the surprise of me initiating it. He'd cracked right open like I'd stabbed him. He didn't even breathe through it.

Then, when it was done, when he pulled away, he looked at me like he didn't know who I was anymore.

And I didn't know either.

He looked so afraid.

Not of me, exactly, but of something in me. Something he wasn't expecting and couldn't control.

Part of me wanted to see him again. To look him in the eyes and see if that fear was still there. The other part was terrified he'd come back and tear me apart for it. Punish me. Reassert control even if he couldn't muster the strength to. But I think I properly broke him.

And I didn't know how to feel about that.

So, when the door opened the next morning and I saw his silhouette in the frame, cigarette burning between his fingers, I was surprised.

He didn't knock. There was no warning. Just the sound of the door unlocking, the handle turning, and then him — leaning against the frame like he was struggling to keep upright.

The first things I noticed were his dishevelled appearance and bloodshot eyes.

His shirt was wrinkled like he'd slept in it — if he'd even slept at all. He looked like he'd been through hell. The sharp, polished version of Tyler was gone. This one was frayed at the edges, thin and wired, like one more wrong word might snap him clean in half.

I knew I had to be careful this time. One word too many and he'd withdraw completely.

He didn't say anything for a while. Just stood there. Smoking. Watching me.

I sat up. Let him look.

Eventually, I said, "Didn't think you'd show your face today."

His jaw clenched. The cigarette flared when he inhaled, and he exhaled shakily like it hurt. He took a few slow steps into the room, gaze on the floor. Then he turned his back, walked to the counter, and stubbed out the cigarette in the sink.

He stayed like that for ten agonising, confusing minutes — not speaking, hands braced on the edge of the sink, shoulders rising and falling.

I wondered what was going on in his head. What had made him like this. Why was he so scared?

Just when I thought he might leave again, he finally spoke, his voice quiet and raw.

"I'm sorry."

Two simple words, yet they hit me like a freight train.

An apology... from Tyler?

I opened my mouth to say something — anything — but I didn't know what to say. Was he apologising for treating me like shit? Or for his emotional outburst?

I studied him for a while. For all the things he was — brutal, calculating, dangerous — this version of him, silent and wrecked, was harder to face.