Yasmin didn’t sleep.
She sat curled on the couch, watching early sunlight bleed through the curtains. The apartment felt different now. Not colder — just heavier. Like the walls remembered what happened.
She kept hearing his voice.
“You didn’t just cheat… you handed me back a ghost I already buried.”
She wanted him to scream.
To throw something.
Anything would’ve been easier than silence.
By 7:00 AM, she stood outside the kitchen, hands shaking.
“I know you don’t want to hear from me,” she said softly, “but I need to say this.”
Nadim stood by the open window, the morning wind brushing against him like it belonged more than she did. He didn’t look at her.
“I messed up,” she continued. “And I’m not saying that like it’s just a mistake. I chose wrong. Over and over. I kept choosing wrong because I was too afraid to admit how lost I was.”
No reaction.
“I blocked him. Deleted everything. Changed my number.”
Her voice cracked. “I’m not saying this to win you back. I’m saying it because you deserve someone who sees you. And I didn’t. Not until I almost lost you.”
Finally, Nadim turned.
His face was unreadable.
“Do you still love me?” she asked, barely a whisper.
A beat passed.
“I don’t know,” he said.
That hurt more than a no.
“I think I’m still trying to forgive myself,” he added. “For missing all the signs. For not asking why you looked empty.”
Yasmin blinked fast.
“I’ll wait,” she said. “Even if the answer stays the same. Even if you never love me again, I’ll still try to make it right.”
Nadim nodded once. Then turned back to the window.
And she understood.
Sometimes healing doesn’t start with forgiveness.
It starts with truth.
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