جميع فصول : الفصل -الفصل 300

JulienWhen I get back in the car, I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. Tears roll down my face, unstoppable.I saw her. I saw my son.And it's killing me.I go home. Élise is waiting for me on the doorstep. She knows. She sees my reddened eyes.She says nothing.She opens the door for me.And the weight of this day crushes us a little more.---CamilleSilence. It reigns supreme in this house emptied of its souls. Every footstep echoes against the walls, cruelly reminding me that nothing remains. Everything I built, everything I dreamed of… has collapsed. And in this field of ruins, only I remain. Me and this child I brought into the world in pain, not knowing that this birth would seal my end.I slowly walk down the hallway. Every room is a scar. The living room… where I still imagined them gathered around me, happy, eager. The kitchen… where he would hold me while I prepared dinner. All these images strike me, tear at me.I stop in front of the window, look at th

CamilleI hold my head in my hands. Memories flash by. Her voice. Her gestures. Her look when she told me she loved me. Does she still love me? Or has she already replaced me… in his arms, in his heart?I want to hate her. But I can't.I get up. The room makes me nauseous. Everything here reminds me that she's no longer there. That this baby, I raise him alone. He sleeps. He knows nothing. He'll never know.I go out on the terrace. The cold bites my skin but I don't care. I cry. Finally. All the tears I've been holding back for days. They crash onto my cheeks, salty, burning.— "Why…?"The wind tears my lament away. It doesn't care. The night doesn't care. Everyone doesn't care.I collapse onto the chair. I hug my arms against me, as if I could piece myself back together.Mom… Come back…---ÉliseI wake with a start. A feeling of emptiness, of falling. The bed is icy. Julien is still sleeping, or pretending. I don't sleep anymore. I haven't slept since I left her.Camille.I close my

ÉliseI don't move. I stay sitting on this chair he left this morning. My gaze clings to the void, my fingers twist around the cold cup I never brought to my lips.I think I loved him, yes. But I no longer know what that means. Loving him… Is that really what I did? Or did I just use him, him and this body that reminded me I was still alive? Can you love when you lose yourself to this extent?I close my eyes. I see him again. His hands on me, his lips, his stifled sighs in the night. And I see myself again, trembling, eager, unable to back away. We burned ourselves to the end. And nothing remains.I get up, staggering. My reflection in the window makes me want to vomit. I look like a woman devoured by shame. A woman who has no place anywhere. Not here. Not elsewhere.I go to the bedroom. His scent still lingers. And it's a pain sharper than everything else. My legs give way. I collapse on the unmade bed. My fingers glide over the sheets he crumpled, that he didn't even bother to strai

Camille---Three months have passed. Three months of piecing together, piece by piece, what was left of me.At first, I didn't believe it. I moved forward in a thick fog, my heart anesthetized, unable to envision anything but this dull pain. But you don't stay broken forever. At some point, the body starts moving, despite the fatigue. It demands that you live. That you breathe.And I chose to follow it.My son's little hand in mine, every morning, gave me strength. No grand declarations. No revenge. Just instinct. That of a mother who gets back up because she no longer has a choice.I signed up for every job posting. Odd jobs. Part-time work. Nothing glorious, but I didn't care. I just wanted to get out of this house. Breathe different air. See different faces.It was finally a neighborhood bookstore that reached out to me. A slightly old-fashioned storefront, wooden shelves that smell of dust and dried ink. And that old man, the owner, who looked at me kindly.— Do you like to read?

CamilleÉdouard shakes his head.— No. He's my portrait at that age. His mother… left shortly after he was born. I raised him alone.I nod, respectful of this confidence.— He's a good boy.— He is, yes. And he deserves better than a father who drowns himself in work or in his memories.Silence settles, heavy. Then, without knowing why, the words cross my lips.— I want to tell you the truth, Édouard. Tell you why I hesitated so much to come. Why I have that look so… empty sometimes.He turns to me, signals for us to sit on a bench a little apart, where André can't hear.I take a deep breath. And I speak.I talk about Julien. About that toxic passion, that impossible betrayal. About my daughter, Camille, who understood everything too late. About the baby, born amidst cries and tears. About that house that rejected me, about that daughter I lost through selfishness and weakness.My eyes water, my hands tremble. But I continue.— I was that woman, Édouard. The one who was betrayed, the