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I didn’t stay on the balcony for long, the exhaustion of the day catching up with me. I quietly made my way back to Willy, slid into bed beside her, and wrapped my arms around her gentle form. Feeling her warm breath on my skin and her soft hair against my check, I soon drifted off to sleep, lulled by the sound of her peaceful slumber.
When I woke up having an urge to drink water, the room was quiet, except for the sound of Willy’s gentle breathing beside me.
I got out of bed and walked to the balcony, where I found Wilson sitting on the balcony chair. Hist head was in his hands, his fingers constantly brushing through his hair, a sign of his distress.
The dim light outside cast a somber glow on his face, highlighting the lines of worry and fatigue etched on his features. I could sense the weight of his thoughts, the burden he carried, and my heart went out to him. I stood there for a moment, unsure of what to say or do
The darkness outside and the clock on the wall told me it was still three in the morning, a time when most people were fast asleep. But Wilson was a morning person, always rising with the sun, so it was unusual to see him awake at this hour.
Something was clearly weighing on him, keeping him awake when he should be resting. My instincts told me that something was off, and I felt a pang of concern for his well–being. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if I should approach him.
“Are you okay?” I asked softly, not wanting to startle him. He turned around, a hint of surprise in his eyes, and nodded curtly without a word.
But his silence spoke volumes, and I could sense the turmoil brewing beneath his calm exterior. I
didn’t want to leave him alone, not like this. Despite the emotional distance between us, despite the feelings I’d lost, I still cared about his well–being. Maybe it was a habit, maybe it was residual sympathy, or maybe it was just human empathy.
“Do you want chamomile tea?” I offered, trying to break the silence. He turned to me, and for a
brief moment, our eyes met.
A small, weary smile crept onto his face, and he nodded instantly, as if the offer was a lifeline. I smiled back, and headed inside to brew a fresh pot. Returning with two steaming mugs, I sat down. in the chair across from him, setting the tea on the table between us.
The aroma filled the air, and for a moment, we just sat there, the only sound of the gentle hum of the breeze outside. It was a small, comforting ritual, one that felt familiar and soothing, like a warm embrace on a chilly night.
The night was dark and profound, the soft glow of golden lamps and the moon’s silvery light cast an ethereal radiance, illuminating the surroundings with an otherworldly beauty.
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After that haunting night, darkness took on a new, foreboding quality for me. It was as if I had been transported back to that terrifying moment when a gun was pressed to my head, and I thought I would never lay eyes on Wilona again.
The shadows seemed to whisper menacing secrets, and the blackness felt suffocating, like a physical presence that threatened to consume me whole. Every night that night fell, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being hurtled back to that traumatic moment, reliving the fear and helplessness that had gripped me. The darkness had become a trigger, a painful reminder of the fragility of life and the terror that lurked in the unknown.
But I’ve outgrown that fear now; it no longer holds the same power over me. We’ve faced it, confronted it, and emerged stronger on the other side.
“Thanks for the tea,” Wilson thanked, his voice low and appreciative. I nodded, acknowledging his gratitude, but my mind was elsewhere.
As comforting as this moment was, watching our daughter thrive and heal, we both knew that the tranquility was only skin–deep. Beneath the surface, we were still dealing with the aftermath of our failed marriage, the emotional scars still tender and raw.
The weight of our unresolved issues and unspoken words hung in the air, a constant reminder that our journey towards healing and redemption was far from over.
eyes
“What’s wrong?” I asked him, my voice barely above a whisper. Wilson turned to me, his e widening slightly in surprise, but he quickly masked his emotions with a neutral expression.
He let out a deep sigh, the sound carrying a weight of unspoken concerns, and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The subtle movement betrayed his attempts to appear nonchalant. Hist gaze drifted away, focusing on some invisible point in the distance, as if searching for answers to questions he couldn’t quite articulate.
“Just a lot on my mind,” he replied, his voice clipped and brief, a clear indication that he didn’t
want to elaborate.
But his words were like a key, unlocking a floodgate of emotions within me. I felt a sharp pang in
my
chest, like a thorn had lodged itself, refusing to be dislodged.
“You can talk to me,” I said, the words tumbling out in a gentle, encouraging cadence. I’d uttered these same words many times before, but they’d always been met with resistance, a stubborn refusal to open up.
Regardless, I couldn’t help but try again, hoping against hope that this time would be different. Maybe, just maybe, he’d finally talk about what he was caught up in. It was the least I could offer, small
gesture of support and solidarity in the midst of our complicated relationship.
a
He looked at me with eyes that were utterly exhausted, their sparkle dulled by the weight of his struggles. His gaze was a window to a soul that was shattered, his strength depleted, leaving him
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vulnerable and miserable.
