“I broke up because…”
My voice was quieter now. Tired. Empty.
“Because he cheated.”
Silence.
Not the heavy, threatening kind this time—
but the kind that comes after something real is said.
Karl didn’t turn around immediately.
The words settled between us, sharp and undeniable.
Then he spoke. Slowly.
“He cheated,” he repeated.
“Yes,” I said, staring at the ceiling. “So don’t make stories in your head. It ended because he didn’t deserve me.”
For the first time that night, karl said nothing back.
I pulled the blanket up to my chin, exhaustion finally winning.
“Now sleep,” I muttered, eyes closing.
“You monster.”
A beat.
Then, softer—almost mocking, almost gentle—
“Good night. Sweet dreams.”
I turned my face toward the pillow, pretending I didn’t care.
Behind me, on the couch, karl lay still.
His jaw was tight.
His fists clenched.
Cheated.
The word burned.
Not because of the man—
but because someone had dared to hurt what now belonged to him.
After a long moment, his voice came again—low, controlled, barely audible in the yellow glow of the lamp.
“He won’t ever touch you again,” he said.
I didn’t open my eyes.
“I don’t need your protection,” I murmured sleepily.
“I know,” he replied.
And then, so quietly I almost thought I imagined it—
“But you’ll always have it.”
The window curtains swayed with the night breeze.
The lamp stayed on.
Two wounded people lay awake in the same room—facing different directions, fighting different wars.
I drifted toward sleep thinking I had won the last word.
I hadn’t.
Because karl Casanova didn’t rage.
Didn’t threaten.
He remembered.
And some memories, in his world, were never left unanswered.
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