Leon sat in the dimly lit apartment, the silence around him broken only by the occasional drip of water from the kitchen faucet. He hadn't bothered to fix it, just like he hadn't bothered to clean up the mess that had been accumulating in his apartment since that night. His place felt like a graveyard now, a suffocating reminder of what he had lost—and what he had done.
The air was thick, stagnant, carrying the scent of leftover food that had gone untouched. The light from the street outside filtered weakly through the drawn blinds, casting long, eerie shadows across the cluttered room. His phone lay on the coffee table in front of him, dark and silent. It had been hours since his last call to Alina, and the ache in his chest grew with every minute that passed without hearing her voice.
Leon leaned forward, rubbing his hands over his face, trying to steady his breathing. His knuckles were still bruised, a faint reminder of the last time he had seen her, of the uncontrollable rage that had surged through him. The memory of that night haunted him—her wide, fearful eyes, the way her body had crumpled under his fists. He could still hear her scream, could still feel the heat of his anger burning through him as he lashed out, over and over again.
How could I have done that?
The thought replayed in his head like a mantra, but no matter how many times he asked himself the question, he couldn't come up with a satisfactory answer. He had snapped—completely, violently—but even now, he couldn't quite wrap his mind around the moment he lost control.
It hadn't started out like that. It had just been an argument at first. He had confronted her, the anger that had been simmering inside him for months finally bubbling over when he found out about the other men. He had known something was wrong for a while. Alina had been distant, her eyes darting away from his whenever he asked where she had been, or who she had been with. He had asked, begged her to be honest with him, to tell him the truth, but she had lied—over and over again.
And then, finally, he had seen the messages. The pictures. It wasn't just one guy. It wasn't just one mistake. It was a string of betrayals that stretched on and on, like a knife being twisted deeper into his gut with every new piece of evidence. Leon had never been able to forget the look on her face when he confronted her that night—the guilt, the shame, and worst of all, the lack of any real defense. She hadn't denied it. She hadn't even tried.
He had felt humiliated. Destroyed.
And now? Now she was gone. Alina had disappeared into that hospital after the fight, and he hadn't seen her since. The guilt had begun to eat away at him, but so had the overwhelming need to fix things, to make her see that he wasn't the monster she thought he was. He could still fix this. He had to.
Leon's jaw clenched as he leaned back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. The weight of his own emotions felt crushing, suffocating. How had everything gone so wrong? How had they gone from being inseparable to this—a tangled web of lies, betrayals, and violence?
They had been happy once. He could still remember the way she used to look at him, her eyes filled with love, the way her smile could light up the entire room. He had fallen for her hard, too hard, maybe, but he had given her everything. He had built his world around her. But somewhere along the line, things had changed. She had changed.
Or maybe it was him.
Leon's chest tightened at the thought. He knew he had become more possessive, more controlling. He knew his jealousy had gotten out of hand. But it was because he loved her. It was because he couldn't stand the thought of losing her. The more distant she became, the more he had tried to hold on to her, to keep her close. But it hadn't worked. The harder he tried, the further she pulled away, until she had slipped completely out of his grasp.
His phone buzzed suddenly, jolting him out of his thoughts. His heart skipped a beat as he snatched it off the coffee table, his hands trembling slightly. But it wasn't Alina. It was a text from one of his friends, Sam.
"Hey man, haven't heard from you in a while. You okay?"
Leon stared at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. Sam didn't know what had happened. None of his friends did. He hadn't told anyone about the fight, about the hospital, about the way everything had spiraled out of control. He didn't want them to know. He didn't want anyone to see him like this—broken, desperate, on the verge of losing everything.
He shoved the phone back down onto the coffee table, ignoring the message. He couldn't talk to anyone right now. Not until he figured out how to fix this. Not until he saw Alina.
His mind drifted back to the last phone call he had with her. She hadn't answered at first, and when she finally did, her voice had been distant, guarded. He had asked her to meet him, to talk, to give him a chance to explain. And she had agreed—hesitantly, but she had agreed. It had been a small victory, but it was enough to give him hope. He had thought she would come straight to him after she was discharged from the hospital. But she hadn't. She was somewhere else now, hiding from him.
With Sarah, he realized, his jaw tightening. It had to be. Sarah had always been there, whispering in Alina's ear, telling her that he wasn't good enough for her, that she should leave him. He had seen the way Sarah looked at him, the way she seemed to judge him every time they were in the same room together. She had never approved of their relationship, never understood why Alina loved him.
But she does love me, Leon thought, his hands clenching into fists. She does. She just needs time to see that we can fix this.
The apartment felt too small, too quiet. Leon stood abruptly, pacing back and forth across the room, his mind racing. He couldn't just sit here, waiting for her to come back. He needed to do something. He needed to take control of the situation, to show her that he wasn't the monster she thought he was.
He grabbed his jacket off the back of the couch, pulling it on as he headed for the door. His movements were quick, almost frantic, as if staying still for too long would force him to face the reality he wasn't ready to accept. He didn't even know where he was going, but he couldn't stay here. He couldn't sit in this empty apartment, surrounded by the memories of what they had once been.
The city greeted him with its usual hum of life—cars honking in the distance, people milling about on the sidewalks, street vendors calling out to passersby. It all felt so distant, so irrelevant. None of these people knew what was happening in his world, how everything was unraveling.
Leon walked aimlessly for a while, his mind a whirlwind of emotions—guilt, anger, desperation. The cold night air bit at his skin, but he hardly noticed. His thoughts were consumed with Alina, with the need to see her, to make things right.
He found himself standing outside of Sarah's apartment building before he even realized where he had been heading. His heart raced as he stared up at the windows, knowing that Alina was probably inside. Part of him wanted to storm in there, to demand that she talk to him, to make her listen. But another part of him knew that wouldn't work. Not now.
He took a deep breath, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He couldn't force her to come back to him. He knew that. But he also couldn't just walk away. Not after everything they had been through. He couldn't lose her.
I just need her to see that I'm sorry, he thought, his chest tightening. I just need her to understand that I didn't mean for any of this to happen.
He stayed outside the building for a long time, watching, waiting. Every few minutes, his hand would drift toward his phone, tempted to call her, to beg her to come outside and talk to him. But he didn't. He just stood there, the weight of his guilt and desperation pressing down on him like a heavy stone.
Eventually, he turned away, his feet carrying him back down the street, away from Sarah's apartment, away from Alina. He couldn't confront her now, not like this. But he wasn't giving up. He couldn't. Not when there was still a chance—no matter how slim—that they could fix this.
Leon walked for what felt like hours, his thoughts a tangled mess of hope and despair. He wanted to fix things, to make everything right, but he didn't know how. He had never been good at talking about his feelings, about the things that really mattered. He had always shown his love through actions, through protection, through keeping Alina close. But now that same instinct to protect her, to keep her safe, had turned into something else—something that scared even him.
By the time he returned to his apartment, the city had grown quieter, the streets almost deserted. He stood in front of his door for a long moment, staring at the chipped paint, the worn-out handle. The apartment felt like a prison now, a cage of his own making. He hated it, but he hated the emptiness inside him even more.
He stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. The silence was deafening.
As he moved toward the couch, his eyes caught on something—an old photo of him and Alina, back when things were good, when they were happy. They were laughing in the picture, arms wrapped around each other, completely oblivious to the storm that was waiting just beyond the horizon.
Leon picked up the photo, his hands trembling as he stared down at it. He wanted that back. He wanted to go back to the way things were before everything fell apart. But deep down, he knew that wasn't possible. Too much had happened. Too many lies, too much betrayal, too much violence.
But even knowing that, he couldn't let her go. He couldn't walk away. Not without trying to fix it.
With a heavy sigh, Leon set the photo down and sank onto the couch, his head in his hands. He didn't know what to do anymore. He didn't know how to make things right.
But one thing was certain—he wasn't giving up on Alina. Not yet.