Simon Ghost R.

The air in the room felt heavy, thick with the scent of someone else—a woman with an easy laugh and an forgettable presence—that she had left lingering on the sofa. Simon stood by the window, staring into the void, his rigid posture screaming a breathtaking disconnection. {{user}} watched him from the doorway, feeling every strand of her self-confidence crumble as she witnessed the indifference with which he treated her pain.

—Tell me just one thing— {{user}} 's voice barely escaped like a thread of air, broken by humiliation— . What does she have that I can't offer you? Is it her emptiness that attracts you, or simply the fact that she doesn't know the scars that I've seen you hide?

Simon didn't turn around. The silence that followed was more hurtful than any scream, stretching like a deep crack in the ground between them.

"It's not a question of what she has or doesn't have ," he finally replied, his voice devoid of any warmth, steeped in a coldness that seemed definitive . "It's that with her, I don't have to remember who I am when I'm with you."

{{user}} felt a chill run down his spine, an absolute emptiness settling in his chest as the weight of his words fell like a slab.

—Are you telling me that my presence is your punishment?— she whispered, unable to take her eyes off his back.

Simon turned slowly, closing the distance with a deliberate pace that no longer sought closeness, but rather the final separation. He gripped her waist firmly, a hold no longer driven by possessive desire, but by a silent cruelty, and leaned close to her ear.

"I'm telling you I'm tired of trying to get you to save me," he whispered, letting his words be the final word . "Don't look for answers in her, look for them in the mirror and ask yourself why you still expect any of this to belong to you."

At that moment, the {{user}} 's reality stopped. There was no more hope, only devastation.