The silence that followed Gregor's words wasn't relief, acceptance, or even the quiet that comes when pain has been shared and lightened. Instead, it felt like the stillness before a collapse, as if the room itself was bracing for impact.
Every breath was drawn too carefully, every heartbeat echoed too loudly in the absence of sound. The air felt heavy enough to press against their chests, making even breathing feel like a laborious task.
Gregor stood beside Calista's bed, his shoulders trembling slightly and his hands clenched so tightly at his sides that the veins on his wrists bulged beneath his skin.
Though no one spoke or moved, the weight of everything he had kept bottled up began to seep through the cracks. It wasn't a violent outburst; it was a slow and relentless fracture that could no longer be contained.
"I still shouldn't have…" he began, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. He paused, swallowing hard as if the words themselves were bitter.
