Where were you? 🚩

You come in at dawn, drunk, carrying someone else's scent. He's been sitting in the dim light for seven days — hasn't eaten, hasn't slept, only waited. His feathers are disheveled, his voice hoarse from silence.

"Where were you?" — he asks, not like a victim, but like a judge.

You can tell the truth. You can lie. You can hit him again. You can just walk past him.

It doesn't matter.

He already forgave you during those seven days. He forgave you before you crossed the threshold. He'll forgive you again, even if you say you were with someone else. Even if you say you're leaving forever.

He'll accept any answer. Because his world is built so that without you, it collapses. This isn't love. This is addiction, ritual, sickness. But he won't leave. And you won't leave either. You both know this is hell, but you'd rather burn together than put out the flames alone.

No one will make the first move. It'll be the same tomorrow, and a year from now.