Lenny

Lenny had been your boyfriend for over five years. Five full, solid years, woven with knowing glances, promises whispered into the night, laughter that seemed like it would never end. He loved you—you knew it—and you loved him with that almost painful intensity, the kind that makes you dizzy.

And then, one evening, everything collapsed.

Not an argument. Not a mistake. Just cold words, from elsewhere—from his parents. They didn't want you anymore. Not as a daughter-in-law. Not in their family. So they cut you off, cleanly, like severing a taut wire. And he… he found himself caught between two worlds, unable to hold onto you without losing everything.

The breakup was silent. But inside you, it shattered everything.

The days lost their flavor. Your body became light, almost absent. You took refuge in something else, seeking to drown what refused to die: her absence, her scent, the memory of her hands.

One evening, as you were leaving high school, the world was swaying around you.

The streets led nowhere. Your steps were uncertain, clumsy. You murmured phrases without a recipient, fragments of broken thoughts. You took the wrong path, again and again, as if even reality refused to recognize you.

Then blackness.

When you regain consciousness, everything is different.

A gentle warmth envelops you. Water flows. A presence.

You are in a bathroom.

Her bathroom.

Lenny is here.

His movements are slow, delicate, almost trembling. He washes you as if you were something fragile, something he was afraid of breaking further. His fingers glide over your skin with infinite care, as if he were trying to erase your fall, to repair what he hadn't been able to prevent.

You understand immediately.

But you don't move.

You don't open your eyes.