A week later—
Time has stretched so slowly that it feels as if it never moved at all.
As if I am still trapped in yesterday, the day everything ended, the day my life quietly became a past I cannot escape.
I wonder if she remembers it too.
Or if I am the only one left carrying something that no longer exists.
Each day, I cried.
So much that even my tears began to feel empty, like my eyes had forgotten how to see anything beyond what was lost. The world outside feels distant now. Unfamiliar. As if stepping into it would mean facing silent judgment… being seen as nothing more than a foolish boy who loved too much and understood too little.
If this is what love is,
then why does it feel so wrong, yet so impossible to let go?
I curse myself for it.
For being this weak.
For breaking over something so small in the eyes of the world.
A boy crying over a girl?
How laughable that must sound.
My friends would mock it.
Call it pathetic.
And maybe they're right.
But if this is foolishness,
then why does it hurt like something real?
Why does it linger like truth?
If only love had been real.
If only she had been real.
If only we had made different choices.
If only I had tried to see things from her side.
Would it have ended differently?
I tell myself it would have.
I have to believe that.
I glance at my phone.
3:24 p.m.
Afternoon.
But time hasn't moved for me since that day.
Everything after it feels misplaced, like it doesn't belong to me.
I feel like something small and lost,
a needle buried in a stack of hay,
somewhere no one thinks to look,
Somewhere no one will find.
People say moving on is simple.
That time does the work for you.
It doesn't.
Love doesn't fade the way they say it does.
It changes. It lingers.
It turns into something else.
Something heavier.
Cruel.
My fist hits the wall before I can stop it.
The sound is dull, almost disappointing.
I stand there, staring at nothing.
Is this anger?
Or just self-loathing wearing a different name?
My room is a mess.
Clothes on the floor.
Unopened messages.
Curtains half-drawn, like even the light isn't sure if it's welcome here.
I look at it all and realise,
It isn't just the room.
It's me.
Even in the middle of all this mess, there was one thing that didn't belong to it.
The picture of us.
It still hung on the wall, untouched—
too clean, too perfect—
like a small peak of something I couldn't reach anymore.
Hope, maybe.
But whatever light it carried…
I couldn't see it now.
My phone starts buzzing.
Raphael.
He's been trying to reach me ever since that day.
Calls. Messages. Voicemails I haven't listened to.
I let it ring.
I can't talk to him.
Not like this.
Not in whatever I've become.
Then...
The door bursts open.
I freeze.
Raphael stands there, breathing like he ran up the stairs, eyes scanning the room before landing on me.
For a second, nothing makes sense.
I don't remember giving him the code.
I exhale slowly.
Maybe my memory's just gone to hell.
Or maybe he never needed permission to break into my life.
I drag a hand across my face, already exhausted.
This guy…
He's about to make everything worse.
Raphael, as cheerful as ever, tries to lift the weight in the room
even though he knows exactly how it ended for me.
He's always been like that.
The one who drags everyone else back toward something lighter.
Maybe… he's the only one who wouldn't judge me.
"What do you want, Raphael?"
My voice comes out flatter than I expect.
He doesn't react to it.
"Hey, man… I've been worried sick about you. You haven't even stepped outside. Not once. Not since that day."
I let out a dry breath.
"I feel like a bug," I say.
"Something small. Useless. Like I don't even have the will to move my own life forward."
The words sit there, heavier than I meant them to be.
Raphael looks at me—really looks.
There's no hesitation in his expression.
No disgust. No pity.
Just concern.
And for some reason, I hate that.
Because part of me still thinks he's like everyone else.
That underneath it, he's judging me too.
Maybe I'm the one who's twisted.
"Dude," he says quietly, stepping closer,
"Trust me when I tell you this… you're not a bug."
I don't respond.
"You're one of the most genuine people I know. The way you love,
it's not normal. It's rare. You give everything without holding back."
He pauses, then adds...
"It's… kind of like Christ. That kind of love."
The words feel unfamiliar.
Like they don't belong to me.
Loving. Genuine.
I haven't heard those words in a while.
And somehow… they hurt.
Not because they're wrong
but because someone still sees something good in me.
Something I can't see anymore.
My throat tightens.
I look away before he notices.
I don't want him to see it,
but I can feel it coming.
I want to cry.