I confessed everything to him that night. Told him all about myself, opened up. He did not judge, only listened. With an understanding and calm expression on his face, he just listened. But no matter how hard he tried to cover up and suppress his feelings I knew I had hurt him.
“The truth,” he started.
A long pause. The silence was painfully present. I did not dare to speak, afraid I might further break what was already terribly broken.
“It’s painful,” he finally managed to make out.
I looked up at him, eyes filled with remorse. My entire body was shaking inside of anger and sorrow. Regret. I had done it again. This time I had stabbed him so deep that there wasn’t a doctor in the world who could manage to sew his wounds.
“Impossible. Can’t be saved. No need to even try.” Cold yet truthful, words filled with honesty yet no sincerity.
I couldn’t even bring myself to apologize. I couldn’t even make out those simple words that might possibly have helped. Never before had I been so angry at myself. But my choice had been made.
I left him that night. Told myself it was for the best. For him, for me, for us. No more us. Just the dagger and I. No matter how hard I tried to ignore it I knew we would hurt again, it was only a matter of time.