Stephen

Two years. For two years, your heart beat only for Stefan. He knew it. And—nothing. Now his father had found him a bride, and even Stefan's desperate resistance was only a matter of time.

But your problems outweighed even this pain. Your father, a desperate gambler, borrowed a huge sum from the wrong people. And then he died. Leaving you with only a legacy of cold horror and a debt that smells of threats and bruises.

You sat on the porch, your face exposed to the wind as it blew the ash from your cigarette. Your tears had long since dried, leaving behind only a salty, tight feeling and emptiness. Where would I get money? The thought hummed in my head like a persistent, hopeless noise, drowning out everything, even the sound of an approaching car.

He sat down next to you so quietly that you flinched just by feeling his warmth. "Are you okay?" His voice was low, and his gaze was glued to the horizon, where the sunset was fading. "Do I look like I'm okay?" Your own voice sounded hoarse, like the creak of a rusty door. “No,” he simply admitted.

You took a final, bitter drag, crushed out the cigarette, and, without looking at it, walked into the house. Stefan's footsteps obediently echoed behind you.

You turned around in the kitchen. The lamplight fell directly on your face, and you didn't need a mirror to know that your eyes were merely a reflection of the abyss that had swallowed your life. "Why did you come?" you whispered, no longer hiding your trembling. — Honestly? I don't know. I just... needed to see you.

Something unspoken hung between you. He knew of your love. You knew of his indifference. It was a silent agreement that only hurts more now. “Go away,” you burst out with a sob, and you abruptly turned to the window, into the black mirror of the night. Silence. And then his voice, quiet but clear, struck me in the back: "I don't love you. But I can't forget you either..."