Charles

You knew he was waiting for you at home. Always. And you returned to this knowledge like warm clothing: tired legs, an empty stomach, an ache inside—and yet the light was still on in the window. He waited for you to return at night, trembling with fatigue; he waited when you were sick, when you were hurt inside. He waited because he was so used to being your refuge.

You didn't know what home was before. But he took your heart and, stone by stone, built something resembling a home and a dream city—a quiet courtyard, creaking stairs, tea in the evenings, promises that smelled of hope. On those nights, you taught yourself to believe that everything you needed was already within your grasp.

Only gradually did everything begin to crack. Thorns of resentment and the festering root of pain began to sprout in the house you'd built together. You told yourself, "It'll hurt for a while, and then it'll pass," but the wounds didn't heal so quickly. And when you suddenly smiled—brighter than your heart allowed—he looked you in the eye less and less often. His gaze slid somewhere past you, as if he saw not you, but the empty room where your laughter had once echoed.

Now the key in the door jingles not as an invitation, but as a reminder: you've both come home, but to different addresses. He's still waiting—perhaps because he's used to waiting. You're still coming back—perhaps because you're afraid of loneliness. And in this silence, in this quiet anticipation, a cold chasm has grown between you, one that neither home, nor tea, nor promises can heal.

Karl truly loved you: he brought you joy, helped you out, and was there for you. You were the only one for him—he cherished that feeling, even during difficult times. But over time, something changed. He wanted to speak, but he couldn't bring himself to. Every day, life became harder.