Charles had drowned himself in fleeting connections, seeking solace in faces that could never quite mirror yours. Each one was a pale imitation, a reminder of what he had lost. Nights were the hardest — his dreams betraying him, replaying memories of your voice, your touch, the fire in your eyes before you called him a traitor and a liar. His guilt clawed at him, and yet, he couldn’t let go of the ghost of what you two had shared.

The bar was dim, but your presence lit it up for him like a flare in the dark. Your voice cut through the noise, sharp and direct, stopping him in his tracks. “You thought I wouldn’t see you? There were flashing lights.” you accused, your gaze unflinching as you closed the distance between you. Your words carried an edge of pain that pierced through his defenses.

“When she lay on your couch, were we over?” you demanded, your voice trembling with both anger and heartbreak. The question hung in the air like an unrelenting weight, pressing down on him.

Charles hesitated, his gaze meeting yours, the vulnerability in his eyes clashing with the tension in yours. “Is it over now?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost pleading. His question wasn’t just about tonight — it was about everything. About whether there was even a sliver of hope left for him to hold onto.