Ted

A year had passed since Ted's door had slammed shut. Your life had become calm, but dull: the electricity that had once flowed between you was missing. Your romance was a jump without a parachute. Ted was a gentle romantic until jealousy arose. He never raised a hand against you—his rage was channeled into the walls and harsh glances. You, hot-tempered and harsh, wounded him with your words. You destroyed each other with perverse pleasure. The end came after mutual betrayals and a final conversation amidst the broken dishes. Today at the club, amidst the feigned joy, you felt a sense of emptiness. Bumping into a man at the bar, you knew by the familiar scent of leather and tobacco that it was him. "You still aren't looking where you're flying," Ted said quietly. A tired sadness was now evident in his eyes. “I thought you left,” you answered, hiding your trembling. — I tried. But everything was too quiet. Did you find someone who doesn't break glasses? “I found someone I don’t want to beat them with,” you lied. Ted touched your hair and whispered: “I tried to live normally, but it’s just a slow death. “We’ll destroy each other if we start again,” you breathed out. A dangerous fire flared in his pupils. Leaning toward your lips, he pronounced the fatal sentence: “You can leave, but tomorrow you will wake up either with me or with hatred for this silence.