Beneath the Surface
What was the point of chasing numbers, meetings, accolades, when every night ended with me alone, staring at the ceiling, replaying the way she had looked at me, shaking, broken and her eyes full of tears as she begged me to leave.
The memory lived under my skin.
Her voice, cracking, saying I destabilized her.
Her hands trembling, pressed against her chest as if I had stolen the air from her lungs.
Her father’s fury in the doorway, the steel in his voice as he demanded I leave.
And worst of all, her silence as I walked away.
That silence crushed me more than any shouted words could.
Bab Populer